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MRS. l.AMI'Rl Y AS SUE LOOKS TO-DAY 



RHYMES OF A RUSTIC 



BY 



MARY JOSEPHINE FOLSOM LAMPREY 




THE GORHAM PRESS 
BOSTON 



Copyright, 1912, by Mary J. F. Lamprey 
All Rights Rfcterved 






The Gohham Press, Boston, U. S. a. 



1 / m *r° 

©CI.A330369 



RHYMES OF A RUSTIC 



Rhymes of a rustic, 

Penned in the pines, 
Pray, ere you read them, 

List to these lines! 
If deep contentment, 

Friends, would ye find, 
Seek ye Dame Nature 

Gentle and kind! 






CONTENTS 

Page 

A Toast to New England 13 

A Myth 14 

A Service Divine ^ 16 

A Petition 24 

Autumn 25 

A Temperance Song 28 

A Modern Minerva 29 

An Evening Ride 31 

At the Cross 31 

An Incident of the Civil War 33 

A Night Watch 36 

A Heroine of the Sea 41 

An Autumn Drive 43 

Among the Pines of Kearsage 45 

Arachne 50 

A Lone Wayfarer 56 

A Valentine 66 

An Indian Lament 83 

A Christmas Carol 114 

August 120 

A Dutiful Daughter 131 

Beginning of Labor 38 

Bob White 39 

Bird Vespers 47 

Benedicite 64 

Bunny 67 

Comrades 16 

Chelone 21 

Cornelia's Jewels 27 

Clover Heads 36 

Climbing Moosilauke 51 

Crazy Mary 60 

Childhood Days 114 

Cousin Cordelia 118 

Defense of the Wildflowers 21 

Death's Angel 40 

Diana and Her Dogs 52 

Devil's Brook 53 

Dear Aunt Caroline 63 

Death of Spartacus 75 

Dear Purple Asters Rare 76 

Drinking at the Trough 138 

7 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Ere Falls the Blessed Eventide 48 

Elegy to Time 52 

Echo Lake 82 

Faithful Unto Death 23 

Faces in the Fire 32 

February 35 

Fairy Bluets 41 

Fritz, My Collie, and 1 44 

Fairyland 58 

Freedom 59 

Friendship's Flower 97 

Fallen Leaves 129 

Forsaken 99 

Flowers of the Forest 142 

Grandmother's Clock 24 

Granny Scripture 98 

Godspeed 107 

Goodby to the Birds 140 

Guess, the Vagabond 141 

Haunted Hearts 63 

Her Idea of Happiness 64 

Hymn 71 

He Heard Altho' in Prison Cell 92 

Home, Sweet Home 100 

How a Spider Made History 107 

Her Dream 118 

His Fight for Life 123 

Hunting for the Slipper 139 

Indian Baskets 30 

In the Springtime Swamp 67 

I Know a Bank 69 

I Know a Pleasant, Sunny, Pine-Grove Border 72 

Instinct 104 

In the Country Kirk 113 

July 86 

King Alfred and the Peasant 81 

Kathleen 130 

Knighthood 132 

Learn to Love the Trees ! 39 

Lines to the Stormy Petrel 46 

Lay of the Meadowlark 54 

Legend of the Passion Plant 67 

Look and Learn ! 75 

Lament of the River Rhine 78 

Lullaby 80 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Listen to the Fairies ! 80 

Little Keepers of the Light 91 

Lines to Night 103 

Lay of the Robber Jay 119 

Lines Written on My Birthday 122 

Lines Written on the Receipt of Some Apples 133 

My Dogs 13 

My Feathered Friends 15 

Mark, the Miner 17 

Miss Lull 27 

Massapoag 34 

My Books 38 

My Childhood's Home 43 

March 55 

Mother Love 57 

Mary's Little Lamb 60 

Merited Praise 61 

Miners of Cornwall 66 

May 68 

Mornings in Newmarket, Long Ago 71 

Morning on the Mountains 81 

My Boys 86 

Meeting of Antony and Cleopatra 99 

Memories 106 

Miss Myers 1 12 

My Good Mother 138 

Needham 53 

Nature's Lesson 85 

Nearer to Nature's Heart 88 

Nutting 94 

November 137 

Oh, Woodman, Spare the Trees ! 15 

On the Main Truck 45 

Orion 46 

Ode to the Pemigewasset 58 

Ode to the Winds 75 

Oh, Worship in the Fanes of Nature ! 89 

Oh, Linger, Lovely Spring ! 92 

Ode to the Mountains 95 

Ode to My Maple Tree 115 

Ode to Disappointed Fortune Seekers from the Country 123 

October 134 

Open, Wide, ye Gates ! 139 

Pioneers 19 

Perfidy's Reward 49 

9 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Pique-Bois-Jaune 6l 

Power of Mind Over Body 79 

Pluma's Snuff Box 124 

Peggy 127 

Rambling Thro' the Woods in Winter 98 

Robert Emmet's Last Moments : 121 

Sportsman, Spare the Little Birds ! 23 

Silver Wedding Bells 55 

Song of the Eglantine 59 

Song of the Watch 65 

Saved From the Sea 73 

Song of the Wooing Frogs 77 

Sunset 84 

Sleep 90 

Sweet Peas 96 

Song of the Surf 101 

Snowflakes 103 

Sonnet to a Skeleton 104 

Spondulyx 105 

Song of the Violet 112 

Sunset at the Farm 116 

Song of a Pair of Shoes 127 

Sweet Sangamon 128 

Springtime Flowers 136 

Sonnet to a Pine of the North 140 

The Wood Anemone 13 

The Empty Nest 18 

Thank God You Were Freemen Born ! 18 

The Gladiator 22 

To My Paper Knife : 24 

The Forage Cup 25 

The Peace Offering 30 

The Gypsy Beggar's Song 32 

To the Greenwood Come ! 36 

Three Fates 42 

The Great Stone Face 70 

The Witch of Vesuvius 74 

The Brown Thrasher 77 

The Robin's Nest 85 

The Invalid's Vision 87 

The Last Request 88 

Toilers of the Sea 90 

'Twas on a Summer's Night 91 

The Skylark's Plea 94 

The Teacher 95 

10 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Old Quay '. 96 

The Two Angels 97 

To the River Charles 100 

To the Whippowill 101 

The Magic Mistletoe 102 

The Dance of Death 108 

The Brook 1 1 1 

To the Burning Bogs of Peat 114 

To the Merrimac and the Poet Who Dwells on its Banks 117 

The Cactus 119 

The Squirrel Banquet 125 

The Fiesta 126 

To the Fox Sparrow 128 

Thoughts on the Autumn Season 130 

The Outlaw's Offer 132 

The Shepherd's Song 133 

The Belle of the Bog 134 

The Passing of Winter 135 

The Irish Peasant's Song 135 

The Three Slaves 141 

Under the Trysting Tree 39 

Use the Eyes Which God Hath Given ! 62 

Value More Highly Your Pearls ! 42 

Verses to a Butterfly 44 

Venus 56 

Visit of the Woodpecker no 

Voices of Nature 117 

Vesper Song 129 

Vale! 143 

What is Thine Aim ? 46 

Wallace at the Battle of Stirling 48 

Wish for a Summer Vacation 49 

Why a Sailor Ben Became 69 

Webster's First Case 82 

Where the Mayflower Fair Ye'll Find 84 

Where to Find God 104 

Watch 109 

When My Ship Comes In 120 

Woodside Cot 122 

Ye Starry Hosts of Heaven 35 

Ye Brazen Bells . . 79 



A TOAST TO NEW ENGLAND 



THE WOOD ANEMONE 



(Suggested by a Sicilian Earthquake.) 

New England with thy rugged coast, 

Thy granite hills of gray, 
Oh, let me offer you this toast, 

On this mid-winter's day! 

Altho' the blasts are bleak and bold 

That beat about thy face, 
Altho' the fogs are chill and cold 

Which thy rude form embrace, 

Altho' thy summer days are hot, 

Thy wintry seasons drear, 
We're very glad 'twas our sweet lot 

To have been born right here! 

For, here, no earthquake shakes the ground 
On which our homesteads stand; 

For, here, no tidal billows bound 
Like demons o'er the land; 

But, safe on mountain, lake or stream, 

Or ocean-girded bay, 
We lie secure to sleep and dream 

From dusk to dawn of day: 

God bless thee, then, New England old, 
Enwrapped in snowflakes white! 

Thy stormy skies, thy breezes bold 
Will vanish, soon, from sight, 

When Spring, with windflowers in her hand, 

Upon thy hills shall tread, 
Close followed by a beauteous band, 

To wake thee from the dead ! 

And, then, for three short months, at most, 
New England, none shall know 

That, e'er, the wild winds lashed thy coast 
Or buried thee in snow, 

For, streams shall sing and rills shall dance 

Thy smiling slopes adown, 
And sunbeams soft shall loving glance 

On leaves which once were brown ! 

So, tho' thy smile is short, it thrills 

Thy people, grown most wise, 
Who choose thy safe, tho' rocky hills, 

To those 'neath fairer skies! 



Hard by a softly murm'ring stream, 

'Neath bending willows bare, 
'Mong tangled boughs of budding shrubs 

I found the wind-flower fair 

A-trembling on its slender stalk, 

(Low drooping, too, its eye,) 
And, never, rarer loveliness 

I've seen below the sky: 

Oh, Wood Anemone, so frail, 

Thou'rt fair as Venus tall, 
From out whose tears you once didst spring 

In the form of a floweret small! 

And, tho' Adonis is no more, 

And Venus quite forgot, 
You, far from Greece, (your happy home,) 

Now, beautify this spot! 

Thanks, modest bloom, for all the joy 

You gave me, here, today, 
By showing me your winsome face 

So free from pride, alway! 

MY DOGS 

Seven are the dogs, in my life, I have owned ; 
Six of these pets I have sadly bemoaned ; 
One is yet left lonely hearthstone beside; 
Here, may he long, safe and happy, abide! 

First of the troop was fair Flora, so white, 
Blotched with jet black and my childish delight, 
Ready, for sweets, on her tiptoes to tread; 
Nothing but dust is she, now, in her bed: 

Second came Guess with his brown eyes, so bright, 
Gleaming like gems in his head, silver white, 
Willing and glad to be dressed, ev'ry day, 
Just like a child, in my doll's clothing gay, 

Then, lying still as a mouse, in cart small, 
While him I drew round the old garden wall ; 
Now, soft and green, lies the turf on his breast, 
Far, far away in the Land of the West: 

Third came good Skip, a small, smart Black and 

Tan, 
Each of his ears like a huge, flapping fan, 
Always so lively, but, ready to rest, 
Curled in a ball, on my lap, lightly pressed : 



13 



Next, came old Bruiser, a true canine lord, 
Gentle at home, but, a tiger abroad; 
Noticing none save his dear loved ones three; 
Even, today, in my mind, him I see; 

Coarse, stiff and short was his thick, tawny hair; 
Nought in his looks, but his eyes, was there fair; 
Yet, his brave heart as the magnet was true; 
Sweet be his sleep 'neath the violets blue! 

Then, there was Max, a young collie, high bred; 
Clear were the eyes in his finely poised head ; 
No drink of water was given him, I wis, 
Good, grateful dog did not give me a kiss; 

Thanking me, well, for each favor, so small, 
Tho' not a word could his tongue let down fall; 
Loving and gentle, I miss thee, today, 
Beautiful Max with thy manners so gay! 

Next, there came Fritz, a great shepherd light 

brown, 
Handsomest dog in our small, country town, 
Bearing, (as 'twere a soft plume,) his long tail 
Over his back as he dashed down the dale; 

Scores were the rambles, o'er field and o'er hill, 
Fritzie and I took our leisure to fill; 
Patient, he'd wait while I gathered wild flowers; 
Happy, he'd roam, at my side, for long hours; 

How eyes would gleam as he glanced at my face! 
How off he'd gambol with swiftness and grace! 
Ne'er I'll forget faithful Fritzie so dear! 
Soft fall the dews on his newly-made bier! 

Last, but, not least, is my spaniel so black; 
Shining as satin is Bob's little back; 
Long are his ears and like paddles his feet; 
Soft are his eyes and his footsteps how fleet! 

Dearly he loves on my dress-skirt to lie ; 
Whene'er I leave him, how deep doth he sigh! 
When I return, how he barks! how he cries! 
Ah ! Bobby Burns, thou art surely a prize ! 

Slowly would much of my time idle by, 
Cheerless I'd sit, saw I not Bob's bright eye; 
Soundly, securely, I sleep thro' the night, 
Since that I know Bobby's slumber is light; 

Pert is the picture when Bob a rag white 
Holds in his teeth 'gainst his breast black as night, 
Coaxing his mistress a moment to play, 
When day is done and she lays work away: 



Dear little Bobby, my idolized pet, 
Nothing you do which doth cause me regret! 
Heaven grant that years in my cottage you stay, 
Stay till thy coat shall grow dingy and gray! 

A MYTH 

'Twas night in the hovel, poor and bare, 

(Which an aged couple pent,) 
And a chill was in the twilight air 
As the carlin plied her evening care 

By the glow the fagots lent: 

A knock on the door was straightway heard, 

And good Baucis limped to see 
Who it was would have with her a word 
At a time when human, beast or bird 

In his hiding place should be: 

Two travellers she found who begged for bread 

And a shelter from the dew; 
So, with joy, the dame both strangers led 
To some seats near by the embers red 

Where she'd warmed a scanty stew: 

A draught of clear wine, for many a day 

She had kept old age to cheer, 
She brought out, in gladness, now, to lay 
Before these, — her guests; for, sweet their stay 

She would make while dwelt they, here: 

As fast as the bowl, so small and mean, 

Was drained out, the peasants spied 
'Twas refilled by hands of them unseen, 
And 'twas then they gazed with eyes grown keen 
On the guests their hearth beside : 

Two gods proved these guests they'd entertained, — 

Mighty Jove and Mercury, 
Who, no more, men's perfect likeness feigned, 
But, who bade the dame, as darkness waned, 

With her spouse, the hut to flee : 

A hill, near at hand, ascended they; 

And, on looking backward, spied 
Where the town had been a lakelet lay, 
Their old home the only house to stay 

By the water's rippling tide: 

And, as they bewailed their neighbors' fate, 

The old sheeling, poor and low, 
To a temple fair, of gorgeous state, 
They saw changed by them, (their guests of late,) 

In the early morning's glow: 



U 



Then, being desired by Jove of Might 

Their few wants aloud to speak, 
The old peasants prayed, that, in his sight, 
In the temple, there, it might seem right 

That they serve until too weak, 

And, then, that, together, they might die, 

As they'd lived, united, long; 
In a twinkling, by the temple high 
Stood the pair as priests; and, by and by, 

At the time of vesper song, 

While standing the temple fair before, 

To an oak-tree turned was one; 
To a lime, before the massive door, 
Was the other changed ; for, now, no more, 

Could they toil ; their tasks were done : 

This tale, tho' a myth, us serves to show 

That to lend our aid is right, 
Tho', unlike this worthy pair we know, 
To no earthly temple do we go 

To serve God, — the Lord of Light! 

We'll get our reward, my Friends, today, 

In the feel of duty done, — 
In the thought that what we do or say 
From a life of sin some soul may stay 

Who hath other helpers none ! 

OH, WOODMAN, SPARE THE TREES! 

Oh, Needham Woodlands fair, 

With leaf-harps softly sighing, 
Where love I to repair 

When joy's within me dying, 

The day, I fear, 

Is very near 
When I, forlorn, shall ponder 

And seek, in vain, 

Thy leafy fane 
Where I, so oft, did wander! 

Where, now, the cooling shade 

Allures me to thy border, 
Brick blocks, in rows arrayed, 
Shall be, erelong, wood-warder; 

And summer heat 

Shall downward beat 
Where virecs, now, hover, 

Beguiling hours 

By showing powers 
Of song to nature's lover: 

'Twas only yestreen, late, 

That thro' thine aisles I rambled, 



15 



(My spaniel for my mate, 
Who, by his mistress, gamboled,) 

And thro' my heart 

There shot a dart 
At woodman's work a-gazing, 

For, there, a-ground, 

Lay, scattered round, 
The limbs he'd been a-razing: 

Oh, Woodman, spare the trees 

Where nest the hermit thrushes,— 
Where softly sighs the breeze 
At sight of Morning's blushes! 

Thine axe delay, 

In pity, pray, 
The maples red from felling, 

Nor take delight 

The birch-blood white 
To see the soil o'erwelling! 

I'll say, not yet, farewell 

To thee, thou forest fairest! 
But, on, thro' grot and dell 

I'll fare, while, still, thou bearest 

Thy groves of green 

Where may be seen 
Rare ferns and mosses dearest, 

And where my ear, 

Perhaps, may hear 
Sweet bird-songs, oh, the clearest! 



MY FEATHERED FRIENDS 

Altho' I love the spring, 

With bush and blade a-budding, 
With thrushes on the wing, 

Their songs the air o'erflooding, 

I love right well 

When dale and dell 
Their winter garb are wearing; 

For, then, to me 

I see, in glee, 
My feathered friends come faring! 

An acrobat, in gray, 

(Who hath no fear of falling,) 
The nuthatch, ev'ry day, 

His nasal, "Yank !" is calling, 
As, head hung down, 
The tree-trunk brown 
Descends he nimbly, ever, 
And picks each nest, 
Which doth infest 
The bark, with firm endeavor: 



The swift brown creeper small, 
(So like the tree he favors,) 
Ascends the cedar tall 

And, ne'er one moment, wavers; 
If 'tweren't I spy 
His motions spry, 
(So match the wood his feathers,) 
I'd, ne'er, remark 
Him on the bark, 
Bugs gleaning in all weathers: 

The woodpecker, red-capped, 
Upon his tail sits perching 
Until the trunk he's rapped 

For worms, (he's, ever, searching;) 

And, then, his bill, 

So like a drill, 
He thrusts adown, most lusty, 

The suet soft 

That hangs aloft 
Upon the cedar rusty: 

The social chickadee, 

The little junco quakers, 
The jays, which scream in glee, 
Are, all, my solace makers; 
And when the blast 
Howls loud and fast, 
I fling more crumbs to feed them, 
And seeds I strew, 
For, then, I know 
My feathered friends will need them: 

Wee Brothers of the Air, 

My love for thee's unfailing ! 
I'll have o'er thee a care, 

When wintry winds are wailing! 

And God I'll pray 

To here let stay, 
(To cheer me, as he's able,) 

Each feathered friend 

To whom I'll lend 
A morsel from my table! 

A SERVICE DIVINE 

It hath, long time, been my custom, 

(Tho' it may to you seem strange,) 
As the twilight slowly deepens 

Over mead and mountain range, 
To betake me to my chamber 

And at western window sit, 
While I hold commune with nature 

And with nature's God a bit: 






And, perhaps, this, too, seems stranger 

Tho' to me 'tis very true, 
That God's holy, soothing Spirit 

Doth my being all imbue, 
At this peaceful hour, more fully 

Than when bells for matins ring, 
For, I see the darkness falling 

From the shadow of His Wing: 

Then, I know, tho' I'm unworthy, 

Thro' the dark and solemn night 
He will watch o'er me, — His servant, 

Till the dawn of morning light; 
And I feel His Arm supporting, 

And I know He's with me, there, 
So, I speak to Him in language 

That you'd think no one would dare; 

For, His Love o'erflows my being 

Like the rush of rising tide, 
And deep thoughts thrill thro' my bosom 

Which to Him I would confide; 
For, is He not my dear Father? 

Then, oh, why should I have fear 
To pour out my inmost yearnings 

To the One who stoops to hear? 

So, I, ever, shall continue 

To this sacred service hold, 
(When the dusky gloaming gathers 

Each stray sheep to shelt'ring fold,) 
With the God of peace and battles, 

With the God of worlds and men, 
With the God who loves his children, 

Who'll forgive them, once again! 

COMRADES 

Ride ye in autos, if ye will, 
Powdered with dust which nostrils fill, 
Over rough roadways swiftly speeding, 
Never the landscape even heeding, 
Trammelled by wraps and veils alway, 
Tho' it be e'er so fair a day! 

Give to your friend a dappled gray! 
Grant us your leave to go our way 
Over the hills, 'mongst purpling heather, 
Far, far away, in autumn weather, 
Dog at our head, — a herald bold, 
Waking the echoes in wood and wold! 

Never a blow, but, gentle pat 

Giveh to my steed's sleek side so fat, 

Only one word in his ear a-listening, 

Then, up the slope with dewdrops glistening, 









Up o'er the hills, by bosky glen, 
Far from the busy haunts of men ! 

Soft 'neath our feet the mosses lie! 
High o'er our heads the pine-trees sigh! 
Close to the mountain's breast so hardy 
Horse, dog and I, with footsteps tardy, 
Gayly will wander, comrades tried, 
Over the paths where shadows hide! 

Over the track by flocks' feet worn, 
Over the path by landslides torn, 
Tarrying oft at fountains foaming, 
Lingering long when falls the gloaming, 
Drinking in scenes spread out so fair, 
Far, far below, in the frosty air! 

Born kindred cronies, faith, are we, — 
Nag, dog and I, — a happy three,^ 
Cob, with his speckled coat so shining, 
Dog, of the watchful eye, a-whining, 
Ready to roam, whene'er I say, 
Over the hills and far away! 

MARK, THE MINER 

At the base of yon Sierras high 
Their fair foothills may be seen, 

Where, in spring, a host of blossoms lie 
On their thrones of mossy green: 

'Mongst these hills, by springs of crystal fed, 

The fair Feather River flows, 
Ever singing 'long its sandy bed 

A refrain the Red Man knows: 

Until three score years, about, ago, 
On these hills, of which I write, 

Undisturbed, the Indian bent his bow 
From the morn till dewy night: 

But, besides the wigwams on the green 

Of fair Feather River's shore, 
After this, log huts were, often, seen 

In small groups of six or more; 

And in one of these rude cabins rough 
Dwelt three friends, one season fair, 

Clad in miners' clothing, coarse and tough, 
Over bosoms full of care; 

For, these men had left their far-off home 

To their fortune find in gold, 
Having crossed the foothills and the foam 

Which beyond the mountains rolled : 



Ne'er an Indian begged these men for bread 

Who had been by them denied; 
So, in peace each slumbered in his bed 

By the friendly Redskin's side: 

Now, it chanced the youngest man, one day, 

Started out to go to town 
For some sacks to fill with sand to lay, 

As a dam, the river down; 

Lusty lad had barely passed eighteen, 

But, in mien a man was he; 
Dark and lustrous were the eyeballs keen 

Which could dance in boyish glee; 

Black as night the locks in curls that fell 

O'er a forehead white as snow; 
Ruddy cheeks like roses in the dell, 

And a mouth like Cupid's bow ; 

Fleeter-footed far than foxes, he, 

With a heart than they more brave, 
As he stalked along the grassy lea 

With a thoughtful aspect grave; 

Thro' the woods where lurked deep shadows gray, 

In which wily foes might hide, 
Thro' the meads where rang the ground-bird's lay, 

Hurried he with quickened stride; 

For, the way was long to yonder town, — 
The way there and back, once more, 

Ere the sunset turned to gold the brown, 
Rugged trunks with moss grown o'er: 

He had passed a stretch of hilly heath, 

When, before him, he espied 
A strange band of Redmen, armed to the teeth, 

On the sloping, green hillside; 

To turn back would mean an instant death; 

To go on he must knew Mark, 
So, he stilled his panting, beating breath, 

Then, with eyes grown strangely dark, 

Just as tho' to meet an Indian band 

Was a most familiar sight, 
Strode our handsome lad, with courage manned, 

O'er the path with blossoms bright: 

Like a group of statues, carved from rock, 

Stood the Redskins in the sun; 
Then, without a smile the man to mock, 

Slow and silent, ev'ry one 



Moved a bit, dividing into two 



17 



The dense crowd, (which, first, he'd seen,) 
And our hero, now, with valor true, 
Stepped along the parts between ; 

Forward, straight he strode, with strength of steel, 

Many rods upon the track, 
Thinking, ev'ry second, he should feel 

Poisoned arrows pierce his back, 

Never daring, e'en, his head to turn 

Till well out of danger's path, 
When he slightly paused, amid the fern, 

To glance back along the rath ; 

Ev'ry warrior, decked in paint and plumes, 

In the springtime air so warm, 
Gazed intent, from out the harebell blooms, 

At the youth's retreating form ; 

Pleased, no doubt, because in Mark's young face 

Rarest beauty they did see; 
More, they knew, from his calm air of grace, 

That no base poltroon was he: 

All thro' life, Mark showed the courage rare 

As on that eventful day 
When his fearless mien and graceful air 

Made the foe its hand to stay: 

It is years since ceased the gallant quest 

For the brightly gleaming gold; 
It is years since o'er the mountain crest 

Homeward hied the laddie bold: 

In his native land, beside a stream, 

As on Feather River's shore, 
Mark, the Miner, sleeps, perhaps, to dream 

Of those thrilling days of yore. 

THE EMPTY NEST 

A purse-like nest, in an elm-tree bare, 
Swings, to and fro, in the frosty air, 

High o'er the village street; 
No tenant, there, in its halls, today, 
A tender love-song or paean gay 

Trilleth in accents sweet; 

For, empty, now, is the house of hair, 
Deserted long by the loving pair, 

Who, on one springtime day, 
With skill and care, wove with claw and bill 
Until it looked as you see it, still, 

Waving above the way: 

'Neath bluer skies and in softer air, 



In love, now, liveth the fire-bird pair, 

(Singing their sweetest psalm,) 
Who never think of the cosy nest, 
Where, sung to sleep 'neath the mother's breast, 

Safe, lay their babes from harm: 

In yon low cottage, beneath the shade 
The elm-tree old hath for decades made, 

Dwelleth a blind man weak; 
His beard is blanched and his face is white; 
From eyes is banished the precious light, 

Vainly, he tries to seek; 

And, on him waiteth his patient wife, 
As loving, now, as in early life, 

Reading, at springtime noon, 
Beneath the elm-tree, where, now, doth hang 
The nest from which blithest carols rang 

All thro' the pleasant June: 

Of late, I've missed, 'neath the elm-tree bare, 
The blind man old, as I loitered, there; 

Lone, 'neath the snow, doth lie 
The ancient cot, with its roof moss-grown, 
O'er which the orioles fair have flown, 

Bound to the spring hard by: 

Maybe, the man, like the hang-birds bright, 
Has left his nest, (in the wintry night, 

Looking so desolate,) 
To go to dwell in the Heavenly Lands, 
In Temples made without tools or hands, 

Where he will gladly wait 

To meet the mate he long loved so dear, 
And wonder how she will, then, appear; 

For, the old eyes, long dim, 
More clearly see than when he was young, 
And heard the orioles' praises sung 

Up on that swaying limb! 

THANK GOD YOU WERE FREEMEN 
BORN! 

Ye, who were born in the Land of the Free, 
Never obliged to a king bend the knee, 
Always accustomed to go where ye please, 
Far to the North, or, to hot Southern Seas, 
Ne'er, will ye know how the Lord ye hath blest, 
Ye, who were born in the Land of the West! 

If ye had seen the loved light of the day, 
When o'er the world the old Romans held sway, 
And, in the galleys a slave you had been, 
Bound to your bench, in the fray's direful din, 



Waiting for death in the fight or the wave, 
Then, you'd have known the hard life of a slave ! 

If in stern Sparta, a serf, you had dwelt, 
Clad in thy vestment of roughest, sheep pelt, 
Coiffed by the bonnet of dog-skin to show 
You were a Helot despised, mean and low, 
Owned by the state, a poor slave of the soil, 
Destined, forever, to delve and to toil, 

Then, perhaps, then, to the gods ye'd have prayed 
Somewhat to soften the laws ye obeyed, — 
Pleading for freedom to work when ye would, — 
Freedom to wear or a cap or a hood, — 
Freedom to go where thy fancy should lead, — 
Freedom to live like thy master, indeed! 

Fifty years, nearly, have, now, passed away 
Since, in his shackles, the bondman, here, lay; 
Now, for a shelter the sad and oppressed 
Seek our loved Land, — their sweet haven of rest, 
For, from the Lakes to the Gulf and the Sea 
Floats Freedom's emblem, — the Flag of the Free! 

Thanks be to God for this gift, far the best 
Given, thro' all time, to this Land of the West, — 
Freedom to live as one will just as long 
As he his neighbor doth do not a wrong, — 
Ever, to dwell, whether black or white, he, 
Free as the wind which sweeps over the sea! 

PIONEERS 

On a pathway, (marked thro' the deep, dark wood 
By the bare rpots blazed on the bark,) there stood, 

On a springtime morn, (when the sun had furled 
His fair flag of fire, and the dew impearled 

Ton the bracken gleamed like the jewels set 
In some mighty emperor's carcanet,) 

A stout mare whose rider his rein had drawn 
As across his path leapt a doe and fawn, 

Bending down their backs, as, o'er bank and brae, 
Thro' the leafy covert they went their way: 

Just behind the rider, of whom I speak, 

Sat a dame dark-haired and of dimpled cheek, 

Whose light laugh rang out, as the deer passed by, 
And a clearer light burned within her eye, 

As she cried, "Farewell!" from her pillion rude, 
To the timid elves of this solitude; 



Of no wondrous beauty the dame could boast, 
But, in courts or camps, ne'er, was given a toast 

To a dame or damsel with eyes more blue 
Or with heart that beat with a love more true 

Than this rustic lass, (made, yestreen, a bride 
In the south .Canadian country-side,) 

And who, now, this glorious morning bright, 
With the laddie she loved, in calm delight, 

Was a-travelling on, (now, grave, now, gay,) 
Thro' the fragrant forest, upon her way 

To the new love-cottage, the pines below, 
Thro' whose casements clean whisp'ring winds 
would blow 

And near which the pewee would, doubtless, nest 
With her young pressed close to her dusky breast: 

In a short half hour, to a grassy glade 

Led the winding path, where, beneath the shade 

Of a spreading pine-tree, her simple home 

She first saw revealed 'neath the cloud-flecked dome; 

Not a neighbor near, nought but woods and sky 
And a sparkling brooklet a-babbling by! 

Down a gentle slope, some few steps away, 
By its banks a milch-cow in quiet lay, 

Her cud chewing, there, with a lazy air, 
And her lustrous orbs on the youthful pair, 

As, from good, old Kit, the gray mare, our lad 
In his brawny arms bore his bride, so glad, 

O'er the rough, rude threshold and thro' the door, 
Like the Roman bridegrooms, in days of yore, 

Lest the lass should stumble, (bad luck 'twas said,) 
Ere she stood inside, with the man she'd wed; 

And sweet Linda looked on the log-built wall, — 
On the mosses stuffed in the chinks, so small, — 

On the plain, pine table and chairs and bed, — 
On the few Delft dishes, up overhead, 

Till the teardrops fell from those eyes of blue, 
And she laid her head on that breast, so true, 



19 



Her pure heart too full to speak praises, then, 
To the one she deemed just the best of men: 

Thus began a honeymoon, bright and fair, 
Long to last, but, not without toil or care, 

For, the young man, here, I delineate, 
And the lovely Linda, his true helpmate, 

Found to make a farm from the forest wild 
Was a work for Trojans, and not a child, 

And, from early morn till the set of sun, 
Faithful Leonard toiled, but, was never done; 

Loudly rang his axe till a woodpile tall 
Proudly loomed hard by the log cabin's wall; 

Late and long he wrought till the stumps were fired 
In the clearing, (years after this, admired;) 

Then, how dripped the sweat from his honest brow, 
As he turned the turf with his heavy plough, 

And how fagged and fevered his feet, at night, 
As he sat at supper by candlelight! 

Yet, no laggard, he! At the misty dawn, 
He was off to plant in his field the corn, 

While the crows looked on with a harsh, "Caw! 



Quite amazed at all they, that 



morning, saw: 



And the squirrels scolded from treetops high 
At the sight of him, as he passed them by, 

Whilst the love-song sweet of a bluebird fair 
Made those morning moments without compare: 

And lithe Linda toiled in the cornfield, too, 
Helping on her husband with courage true; 

When the corn had sprouted, with hoe in hand, 
Midst the rows the mistress did, often, stand 

With her winning smile and her merry word 
Which the master's down-drooping spirits stirred: 

As the years flew by and the toddlers came, 
Loving Linda sat at her quilting frame, 

Or, stood, long, to weave at the lumb'ring loom, 
(To its fullest stretched in the one best room,) 



Skimming milk and setting to rise the bread, 
When her spouse and babies were snug in bed; 

And the raven hair thinner grew and white, 
And the rosy cheeks seemed to lose their light, 

But, the pleasing smile, never, lost its cheer, 
And the soothing tones, still, were sweet to hear: 

Once a month, or, so, when the work was o'er, 
Leonard harnessed Kit for one labor more, — 

Fifteen miles and back to the store to buy, 

(Be the pathway clear or with snowdrifts high,) 

Tea, tobacco, sugar and spice, maybe, 
Or some candy balls for the children wee ; 

'Twould be nearly midnight when came he back, 
Like old Santa Claus, with his pond'rous pack; 

If in winter weather, waited Linda fair 
By the fireplace huge, in her rocking chair, 

Knitting socks, perchance, by the dick'ring flame, 
(Which the back-log cast o'er her tired frame,) 

Stopping work to hear, as she grew quite white, 
Howls of hungry wolves in the silent night, 

With a fervent prayer for the absent one 
On the bridle-path with his pack and gun; 

If the farmer went when the days were long, — 
When the air was sweet with the throstle's song, 

She was wont to sit on the doorstone wide, 
With the cradle close, (just the door inside;) 

And the bird-songs died and a silence deep 
Over all the landscape around did creep; 

Save the whirring sound of a beetle's wing 
Or an owlet's cry heard she not a thing; 

Or, maybe, the brook, o'er its pebbles gray, 
Which ceased not its ditty by night or day; 

Here, she sat with never a shade of fear 
Till swift hoof-beats fell on her listening ear; 

And the noise came nearer until, at last, 

Sounds of cracking boughs told the wood was past; 

With a thankful heart did she, then, uprise, 
Looks of love a-lighting her liquid eyes, 



As she laid a lunch of fresh cheese and bread 
For the lad she, many years since, had wed, 

But, for whom her heart, in or sun or storm, 
Throbbed, today, as then, with strong pulses warm, 

And would, ever, throb till their toils were done 
And for both had set the all-seeing sun : 

Thus it was the brave, hardy pioneer, 
With the helpful aid of his consort dear, 

Drudged from morn till eve, in the early day, 
With no pleasures bright to allure their way, 

Till old age flung frost on each furrowed brow, 
And the back was bent at the loom or plough: 

Yet, we owe our towns, over all the land, 
To these heroes simple, and, yet, so grand, 

Who laid low the forest, where lurked the bear ; 
Who raised up the grainfields, so smiling, fair; 

Honor, then, for them of the homespun suits, 
Of the knitted stockings and cowhide boots! 

Let us thank our God that such men as these 
Loved their duty more than they loved their ease! 

CHELONE 

Oh, naughty, little nymph, who crept 

One day, last summer, early, 
Up here, not knowing that I kept 

A saucy spaniel surly, 
I guarded you, as best I might, 
Until you slowly took to flight, 

A-bearing on your back your home 

Which you are doomed to carry, 
No matter where or when you roam 

Or where you choose to tarry, — 
A punishment, for ages borne, 
Because of gods you, once, made scorn! 

I hope you gained the marsh, again, 
Whence you, that morn, went creeping; 

And wonder if within the fen, 
Today, you're soundly sleeping 

Or swimming in the streamlet clear 

Which I can see from even here! 

Some future day, I'll visit thee, 
Dear, little nymph, Chelone! 



And, when I come, pray, do not flee 

Within thy castle stony, 
But, look at me with thy great eyes, 
Which show to me you're good and wise! 

I'd like to view thee in the mead; 

Beside the wimpling water! 
I'd like to know on what you feed, 

Slow-walking, little daughter, 
And, also, see how fleet thy feet 
When in the water, cool and sweet! 

When Mercury, in years gone by, 

You flung within the river, 
(Because Jove's call you did defy,) 

He was a gen'rous giver; 
For, then, he taught you how to swim, 
With speed, with gracefulness and vim! 

So, Turtle, stay where you were born! 

Climb not yon hill of trouble, 
But, some sunshiny, summer morn, 

Don't think you're seeing double, 
When, looking out upon the lea, 
You see your old acquaintance, — me! 

DEFENSE OF THE WILDFLOWERS 

Ye lovers true of wildflowers fair, 
That deck the rocky pastures bare, 
Which spring, like gleaming jewels bright, 
On yonder barren Alpine height, 
Your ruthless hands, I pray ye, stay! 
Uproot ye not the wildflowers gay! 

The lady's slipper, never found 

In pairs upon the leaf-strewn ground, 

The wood anemone, so white, 

That trembles in the breezes light, 

Oh, pluck, and fill each vase, to-day, 

But, root not up these wildflowers gay! 

The meadow rue, (a stately queen,) 
Which bows and bends in meadows green; 
Blue flags that gaze, like wond'ring eyes, 
From out the mead in glad surprise; 
Oh, gather these in nosegays rare, 
But, root not up these wildflowers fair! 

The crowfoot holds her chalice up 

To fill with dew her golden cup ; 

The pale corydalis that peeps 

O'er boulders old where lichen creeps; 

Go! search for these and garlands twine, 

But, root not up these wildflowers fine! 



The pink sweet-brier which leaneth low 
To list the wooing west wind blow ; 
The sandwort, tiny, yet, so bold, 
That springs on mountain summits old; 
Yes, pick them all, all you can find, 
But, leave their roots, intact, behind ! 

None lives who loves not wildflowers gay! 

In all the world none them would slay ! 

But, if, by the roots, ye men uptear 

These dryads of the forest fair, 

In coming years, each moor and lea 

A perfect wilderness will be! 

Then, pluck the blooms, all love so well, 
Which in the woods or meadows dwell, 
But, leave the roots to live and grow 
To fair flower elves, (we all well know,) 
Who cheer our hearts, when all is night, 
With fairy forms and colors bright! 

THE GLADIATOR 

Soft shone the sun on the Tiber, so slow, 

Its yellow waves sparkling with shafts from his 

bow; 
Sweet sang the breeze o'er the seven hills of green, 
Where, Rome, in her grandeur, then, lay a fair 

queen : 

Bright gleamed each gradus, in Circus, so grand, 
With fairest of maidens that graced the fair land; 
White shimmered togas of senators old, 
On shoulders confined with rich fibulas gold: 

Hushed, at the blast of a bugle, the hum 
Of all those spectators become, as 'twere, dumb; 
Fixed was each eye on th' arena, so wide, 
Strewn over with sand, o'er which, once, ebbed the 
tide, 

When, at a bound, leaped two men into view, 

In scorching sun-rays, 'neath the sky's vault of blue, 

Eyeing each other, with glances so fleet, 

From head's very crown to the soles of the feet: 

One, trained to fight in the swordman's rough 

school, 
Of black, flashing eye and bravado so cool, 
Brawny of breast and gigantic in size, 
Impatiently waited to strike for the prize, — 

Ten thousand sesterces, silvery bright, 
To him fairer far than the dawn's rosy light; 
One, but a slave, tho' as fair as a god, 
With soul of a hero who spurns whip or rod, 



There, in the hope of sweet freedom to gain, 

Awaited, heart beating, the signal so vain; 

Then, at the sound, two sharp swords clashed and 

tore 
Till the sand, underfoot, slipp'ry grew with red 

gore: 

Clear glowed the palm-branch 'fore eyes of the 

slave, 
And near seemed the rudis, or rough, wooden glaive, 
Badge of loved liberty, dear to the heart 
Of each human creature exposed in slave mart; 

Hope gave him strength, tho' flushed cheek blanched 

with pain, 
Tho' ivory form ruddy grew, and reeled brain, 
Strength till blue eyes had begun to grow dim, 
When feeble and faint grew stout heart and lithe 

limb ; 

Then, in his agony, frenzy, despair, 

He turns those blue eyes, 'neath thick locks of light 

hair, 
Up towards that vast, seething sea, still as death, 
Which waves not a fan, swings no scarf, breathes 

no breath ; 

Tho', (but a few, little seconds before,) 
Loud cheer upon cheer to the welkin did soar, 
Now in disgust at that slave's mute appeal, 
"Thumbs up," e'en from Vestals, his death-warrant 
seal; 

When the last strokes have been dealt and he falls 
'Pon sand, 'neath the shade of yon, steep, rocky 

walls, 
Clearly he sees, in death vision, the prize, 
(For which he hath risked his young life,) now, 

arise ; 

Smiling and happy that, now, he is free, 
He grasps for the bauble, uprising on knee, 
Opening his lips, whence proceeds not a sound, 

Then, falling, a corpse, on the blood-sodden ground : 

********* 

Rome's Colisseum, in ruins, today, 

Is viewed by the traveller and guide, grave or gay, 

Climbing the seats where reclined virgins fair, 

Or peering in depths which were savage beasts' lair; 

Stalking thro' gates where patricians, once, strayed 
With consuls and quaestors, in purple arrayed; 
Wond'ring where tribunes and aediles had passed, 
Preceded by slaves, in those passages vast; 

Awe-struck and saddened this ruin, so grand, 



(The greatest, most splendid of all in the land,) 

Still, should recall Gladiatorial Shows, 

The hard-hearted Romans, the slaves' wretched 



FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH 

On a ship that hailed from Glasgow, 
(Ploughing thro' the waters wild 

Of the stormy, rough Atlantic,) 
Was a happy, little child 

With her sire and two fine collies; 

And, thro' ev'ry waking hour, 
Mary romped with canine playmates, 

What tho' murky clouds did lower! 

But, one day, a fearful tempest 
Swept the sea and billows white 

Rocked the vessel like a cradle, 
Up and down, to left and right; 

And the tossing and the pitching 
In the troughs of Neptune deep 

Made the little lassie weary, 
And she fell in that calm sleep 

Whence there'll, never, be a wakening 
On this side the roaring Sea, — 

Not until the inky shadows, 
At God's word, in terror, flee! 

While the pure and pallid body 

In the cabin lay, so still, 
Piteous whinings of the collies 

Hearts of all, aboard, did thrill; 

But, at last, the corse was carried 
To the deck, where, once, had run 

Merry Mary and her playmates 
From the dawn till set of sun; 

While the service, so pathetic, 
By the chaplain, there, was read, 

Ben and Daisy strained their leashes, 
Bound to reach beloved dead; 

Then, as gentle, little Mary 

To the rail was lifted, high, 
(By the hands of tearful sailors,) 

There, beneath the solemn sky, 

Daisy broke the band, which held her, 

O'er the gunwale gave a leap 
Just as Mary's tiny body 

Vanished 'neath the foaming deep: 



All alone, beside her mistress, 
Now, in peace, doth Daisy rest, 

Sung to sleep by ocean dirges , 
Pillowed close on Mary's breast! 

SPORTSMAN, SPARE THE LITTLE 
BIRDS! 

When the beautiful October 

Turns the leaves to gold and brown, 
When the maples, (blushing crimson,) 

Fling their leaflets up and down, 
When the huntsman, (with his rifle,) 
Wanders thro' the forest fair, 

Oh, I pray you, heed my words, — 
Sportsman, spare the little birds! 

If you must, oh, cruel fowler, 

Shoot the hermit screech-owls gray! 
And the crow, that's so destructive, 

You may kill, most any day ! 
But, when tramping thro' the thicket, 
With your gun already cocked, 
Oh, I pray you, heed my words, — 
Sportsman, spare the singing birds! 

For, the singing birds, remember, 

Are all far too small for food ; 
But, are nature's finest preachers 

To us human beings rude; 
So, whene'er you meet the redstart, 
Bobolink or meadow lark, 

Oh, I pray you, heed my words, — 
Sportsman, spare the singing birds! 

Do not tempt the giddy woman 

With birds' plumage to adorn 
Her form fair enough, already, 

Without feathers rudely torn 
From the humming-bird, bright burnished, 
Or the egret's queenly crest; 

So, I pray you, heed my words, — 
Sportsman, spare the pretty birds! 

And, know, too, the sweetest singers, 

Which bewitch the listening ear, 
Are not idle, thriftless fellows 

Wasting time all thro' the year, 
But, are scavengers of insects 
That destroy our forest trees; 
So, I pray you, heed my words, — 
Sportsman, spare the busy birds! 

May your bag be filled with game birds, 



23 



With the partridge, plump and sweet! 
May you give a lordly banquet, 

Where, together, there may meet 
Noble men and lovely ladies 
Who will laud you to the skies, 
When you tell them, in low words, 
Why you spared the singing birds! 

A PETITION 

Oh, gracious Heavenly Father, 
Before thy Throne I bow, 

And on thy holy Altar 
I offer up my vow! 

I thank thee for the sunshine 
That greets my waking eyes! 

I thank thee for the blossoms! — 
For yonder starry skies! 

For food, for shelter, raiment! 

But, most of all, for health! 
I thank thee for contentment 

Which better is than wealth! 

Lord, now, I pray for pardon 
For ev'ry trespass dark, 

And help to live, henceforward, 
More near the Shining Mark! 

To get my daily comfort 
By walking in that way 

Which points to Life Eternal! 
Which leads to Endless Day! 

TO MY PAPER KNIFE 

O knife in fearful dagger's form, 

Thou mak'st my very blood grow warm! 

Whene'er I take thee in my hand, 

My thoughts fly towards a distant land, 

Where, in a small, Swiss cottage neat, 

Which lieth safe at Mont Blanc's feet, 

An unknown, peasant lad from pine, 

Once, fashioned thee, oh, poinard mine! 

Once, fashioned thee with skill and pride, 

Not dreaming, that, o'er ocean wide, 

His knife, with gentians rudely wrought, 

To me would by a friend be brought, 

And, that upon my desk 'twould lie, 

A mentor mute, forever, nigh, 

To speak sweet thoughts, (which, ne'er, will 

To me of maker and of friend, — 

That friend who, now, hath roamed afar 

Across the River, o'er the Bar; — 

Who'll, ne'er, return or token bring! 



end,) 



But, just at dusk, when vespers ring, 

I hear these words, "Oh, haste, friend dear, 

Haste onward to the Mountains clear! — 

The Mountains, like the Alps so blue, 

But, fairer, grander to the view, 

That flash and gleam with rosy light! 

For, here, God's smile makes day of night!" 

GRANDMOTHER'S CLOCK 

In its dark, wooden case, near the stairway, 

Stands my Grandmother's time-keeper old, 
With its face blotched and wrinkled and yellow, 
But, erect as an Indian bold, 
As it measures the hours, 
While it bravely uptowers 
'Neath the cap which its face doth enfold: 

Fifty years, the old clock marked the moments 

For my Grandmother good with great care ; 
Seventeen times, its clear tongue birth-hour noted 
Of her beautiful babies, so fair, 
In a cradle she rocked 
As clock's heart-beats loud knocked 
'Gainst its hard, bony bosom so bare: 

Many hundreds of times, its voice warning 

Must have Grandma aroused, at the loom, 
When 'twas time to prepare noontide banquet 
In that cheery, low-ceiled, sunny room, 
Where bright eyes and cheeks red 
Gave sweet flavor to bread, 
From all hearts chasing sorrow and gloom : 

Ah! how oft did its tones break the stillness, 

As she sat in her rush-bottomed chair, 
(With a candle illuming the darkness 
Of the midnight's weird, still, solemn air,) 
Making coats for each boy 
Out of cloth, that, in joy, 
She had spun from the sheep's fleece, so fair ! 

Old clock's notes seemed how merry and joyful 

On the night eldest daughter, a bride, 
Left the roof of her parents, forever, 
In a snug, little cot to abide! 

How on wings flew the time, 
To the clock's cheerful chime, 
Till to silence the revelry died! 

Yet, how loud, harsh and hoarse seemed its accents, 

On the night young Rebecca, so sweet, 
Left the earth, on the eve of her bridal, 
When she went her dear Saviour to meet! 
How the pulse of clock's chest 
Seemed a thrust in the breast 
Of each friend in his hard, high-backed seat! 



24 



As I look at the ancient, old timepiece, 

As I list to its voice, gladsome, bright, 
Thoughts recur to those eyes, once, so sparkling, 
To those fingers, with touch soft and light, 
Which have gazed at its face, 
As it stood in its place, 
And caressed heart-strings strong, ev'ry night; 

And, it seems, when alone in the gloaming, 

And, "Tick! Tock!" echoes plaintively clear, 
That my Grandma, there, sits at her knitting, 
With form bent and face wrinkled and sere; 
For, the clock was her friend 
And its love, ne'er, did end; 
But, tonight, in the silence I hear, 

"Fare thee well, my good friend, true and faithful, 

Fare thee well ! I am, too, near the goal 
Where the weary find rest and all burdens 
From tired shoulders and bosoms off-roll, 
Where we'll meet, once again, 
Ne'er, to part, Dear, I ken, 
But, to speak, as of yore, soul to soul!" 



AUTUMN 



And the bobolink's on his way 
To a warmer, southern shore: 

When the hills are as clearly cut 

As a cameo of cost, 
Would my home were a shepherd's hut 

Where the slope by a brook is crossed! 

Where I'd hear, at the close of day, 

Cheerful calls of chickadees, 
And the night-wind for me would play 

On the spruces' thousand keys! 

Such a shed would be more to me, 

On the hills in autumn fair, 
Than a palace of art could be 

In a spot of forests bare! 

A soft bed of the balsam sweet, 

Water cool from some clear spring, 

Piney airs, that the nostrils greet, 

Years of health and strength would bring! 

And I'd love Mother Nature more, 

When I city sports forsook 
For the cataract's ceaseless roar 

And the call of crow and rook! 



Clustered berries are drooping down 
From the graceful rowan-tree; 

Shining nuts from the chestnut's crown 
Come a-showering down to me: 

'Neath the maples, by hedge-rowed lane, 
(Since the frost declared for war,) 

Stand the sumachs, in Mars's train, 
Flaunting flags as red as gore: 



I far wiser should surely be, 
Happier, too, oh, yes, indeed, 

Dear Dame Nature, I swear to thee, 
When thy book I'd learned to read! 

And, each fall, when your harvest horn 
You poured freely out to me, 

I'd be thankful I, here, was born, 
And give heartfelt praise to thee! 



Clumps of asters, with cordate leaves, 
Kneel to make their toilet where 

The bright brook with its sword upheaves 
The brown sward of meadows bare: 

Silky hair of the tasselled corn 

From pure gold is turning brown, 

But, it, still, joyful waves, at morn, 
In the fields beyond the town: 

Purpling grapes Bacchus hangs on high 
Fingers sly of thieves to shun, 

While o'er all is the cloudless sky 
Where's enthroned the shining sun: 

Squirrels gray, now, employ the day 
Laying up of nuts a store, 



THE FORAGE CUP 

Oh, ancient mug of earthenware, 
As down from etagere you stare, 

Your story I'll relate, — 
The thrilling tale of times gone by, 
When thou, beneath the southern sky, 

Met, all unmoved, thy fate! 

With other mugs, in looks like thine, 
On pantry-shelf you stood in line, 

Where cotton fields glowed white, 
And saw the rice-swamps, down below, 
And heard the planter's stinging blow 

On blacks' scarred shoulders light! 

But, lo! one night, you heard the cry, 



25 



"The Yankee Army's coming by!" 

And, then, in hurry hot, 
The master harnessed, one by one, 
His sterling steeds, black, roan and dun, 

And, off, at ten-mile trot, 

He rode and left you, there, alone, 
To reach some spot, to you unknown, 

Where safe he might abide; 
But, short the space you had to wait; 
The foe reviled was at the gate; 

Ah! where should, now, you hide? 

No coward, thou, oh, mug of white 
With circling stripes of azure bright 

Set off by bands of jet! 
Upon the shelf, with careless air, 
You stood in silence till a pair 

Of eyes, still blacker yet 

Than are thy bands, you saw glance up 
To where you towered, oh, shining cup, 

And, then, with chuckle gay, 
From off thy pedestal of old 
Their owner drew thee, beaker bold, 

And laid thee snug away 

Within his leathern knapsack worn, 
Rain-beaten, muddy, rough and torn; 

When, in its depths, you found 
A white, wool shawl, with border bright, 
And peacock feathers, seized, that night, 

Whilst boys, on forage bound, 

Stripped old plantation-house of all 
It held of worth, both large and small; 

And, then, at call, "To arms!" 
Turned backs on homestead, nevermore, 
To cross its foot-worn threshold o'er, 

Or rest beneath its palms: 

And, thus, at handsome soldier's back, 
Oh, forage cup, in creased knapsack 

You journeyed, day by day; 
You heard the rebels' battle-cry, — 
The cannon's boom along the sky, — 

The wounded's mournful lay: 



A fragrant flood of coffee rare 

Rose, steaming, thro' night's chilly air; 

Forgot were blistered feet; 
Forgot the pain that head did rack; 
Forgot the tired, weary back; 

When mouth mustached did meet 

Thy curving rim, oh, forage cup, 
Thy cheering contents hot to sup! 

No cup on earth could be, 
(Tho' wrought of gold or silver bright, 
With bonny jewels rare bedight,) 

One-half so dear as thee! 

When drained was draught that buoyed him up, 
Thine owner praised thee, modest cup! 

Thy belts he called as blue 
As were the eyes of wife, so dear, 
In far-off North, and, then, a tear 

In dark eye gleamed like dew: 

On march, in camp or battle-line, 
His comrade wert thou, beaker mine, 

Till soldier took his bed ; 
E'en, in the hospital, you lay, 
In knapsack soiled, on pallet gray, 

Beneath his fevered head: 

When convalescent, drank he, first, 

From out thy breast to quench his thirst; 

And, when up North came he, 
With shawl and peacock-feathers blue, 
(Kept safe for wifie, sweet and true,) 

With heart brimful of glee, 

He fetched thee, forage cup, to dwell, 
Fore'er, in the land he loved so well; 

Once more, on a shelf to stand, 
Reminding him of days, long past, 
When he was of that Army vast 

Which saved this lovely land: 

But, now, in camp upon the hill 
My soldier father lieth still; — 

The welkin blue, his tent; — 
His blanket soft, the snow so white; — 
His camp-fire bright, the clear starlight; 

And moonbeams, thro' each rent 






When carnage din was hushed, and night 
Put end, at length, to bloody fight, — 

When camp-fires brightly gleamed, 
From out the knapsack old was drawn 
Thy comely form by hands forlorn; 

And, instantly, it seemed 



26 



Of thin cloud-curtains, fall in love 
Upon the flag which floats above 

His patient face, so dear; 
And, there, he'll sleep until, at last, 
The Reveille's shrill, trumpet blast, 

Some morn, he'll, joyful, hear: 






So, forage cup, you, now, know well 
Why, here, with me, you, e'er, must dwell; 

For, on thy banded face 
My Sire's dark eyes, I'll see no more, 
In love, have rested, o'er and o'er; 

And, on thy rim I trace 

Where bearded lip, so many a time, 
Hath snatched a kiss, at hour of prime, 

Ere should'ring heavy gun 
And marching on thro' mud and mire, 
Or, waiting for the word to fire, 

Where battle lowered dun: 

And, so, I'll keep thee, beaker old, 
Till I lie, too, within the mould, 

To whisper, sweet and low, 
The tale I, ne'er, shall quite forget 
Of the deeds of one, with eyes of jet, 

Who marched to meet the foe! 

CORNELIA'S JEWELS 

Th' Eternal City, still, doth hide 

Among her hillsides seven; 
Reflected in her Tiber's tide, 

Still, shine the stars of heaven: 

Her forum, temples, arches fair, 
(The signs of glorious days,) 

Still, stand in grand, old ruins, there, — 
The theme of poets' lays: 

And, there, Cornelia, good and great, 
Brought up her children three 

All sloth and wickedness to hate, — 
To pure and noble be: 

Methinks I see her villa where 
She ruled in gentle love, — 
The courtyard rife with roses rare 
She, daily, bent above: 

I see her, on a certain day, 
When, chatting with a guest, 

Upon a splendid couch she lay, 
In simple stola dressed: 

I hear the fountain's murmur sweet; 

Its cooling air I feel, 
As, after hours of wilting heat, 

Thro' dwelling it doth steal: 

I note the guest her hostess show 

The ornaments she wears; 
I list the conversation flow 



Thro' blossom-scented airs: 

And, then, I hear the lady say, 
"Come, now, Cornelia, Friend, 

Oh, show to me the jewels gay 
Such grace thy looks must lend!" 

Cornelia wisely held her friend 

In talk a kittle while; 
And, at the conversation's end, 

There flew thro' peristyle, 

From school, Cornelia's children three; 

When she, in glee, exclaimed, 
"My Friend, you, here, my gems can see,- 

My peerless jewels famed!" 



Ah, sad it seems, Cornelia sweet, 

That both thy sons, so dear, 
Away from thee, their death should meet, 

In revolution drear! 

And, yet, your loss with strength you bore; 

Your grief you deep did hide; 
The jewels, which you proudly wore, 

You meekly laid aside! 

No wonder that the people reared 

A monument to thee! 
A woman, so to all endeared, 

Rome, ne'er again, did see! 

Know, readers, how th' inscription read? 

"Cornelia," (not the wife, 
But,) "Mother of the Gracchi!" dead, 

Cut down in civil strife: 



Ye mothers of the present day, 
Like this good dame of Rome, 

Beside your hearthstones closer stay 
To grace and bless your home! 

I can not promise ye that, e'er, 

Ye'll honored be as she, 
But children's love ye'll, surely, bear; 

Life's sweetest joy to thee! 

MISS LULL 

Miss Lull is a name would I not care 
To give to a pet of mine; 



27 



But, yet, it was given my Grandma's mare, 
A creature both fair and fine: 

This mare was a sorrel, stout and strong, 

Who, nearly, a ton did weigh; 
And fleet were the feet that flew along 

When felt she at heart most gay: 

She harrowed, she raked, she pulled the plough; 

In hot, summer days, she hayed; 
And damp grew the star upon her brow, 

But, never, was she dismayed: 

Now, early, one spring, a colt was born 

To dear, old Miss Lull, so true; 
And happy was she from night to morn 

When lay it within her view: 

But, nervous was she, — that mother mare, 

If harnessed they her to go 
Away from the one to her how fair, 

Asleep in the straw below! 

One day, at the station, far away, 

Two friends were expected ; so, 
They gave good Miss Lull her grain and hay 

And tackled her up to go: 

Eight miles, there and back, too long a way 

Was judged for the foal to run; 
And, so, 'twas decided he must stay 

At home till the task was done: 

Instead of her common, easy gait, 

Which needed nor word nor whip, 
The old mother-mare seemed just to hate 

To go on this tedious trip: 

Good Grandma must urge her flagging feet 

With touch of the lash, that day, 
As passed they the fields where ripening wheat 

Hung heavy and drooping lay: 

But, after the greetings, when each guest 

Sat safe on the wagon seat, 
And Grandma had turned Miss Lull's broad breast 

Towards home, in the noontime heat, 

At once, at a fearful rate of speed, 

Strode on the great mare, and foam 
Flew out from her lips on the wayside weed, 

As galloped she on toward home: 

She whinnied and neighed, as on she flew; 

She sweat till each hair grew dark; 
And Grandma, (her friend, forever, true,) 



28 



She'd, ne'er, for a second, hark: 

At last, in her stall she stood, once more, 
Wet through, and with beating breast, 

But, happy, for, there, her face before, 
Her colt, safe and sound, did rest. 

A TEMPERANCE SONG 

Not far from home, a country lane 

Invites me, ev'ry day, 
To free my heart from care and pain 

Along its wooded way, 

Where summer zephyrs softly sigh 

Among its priestly pines; 
Where butterflies flit fleetly by 

Amongst its graceful vines; 

Where piquant columbines, above 

A steeply-shelving bank, 
Look down upon their modest love, 

(Of high and royal rank,) 

In plain, but, richest purple dressed, 

With coronal of dew 
On head hung low upon her breast, — 

The violet, so true; 

Where autumn asters, blue and white, 

Bow low before the blast; 
Where sunset's clear and mellow light 

To gold turns oaken mast: 

Today, as usual, I went 

Along the winding way; 
Gray, leaden clouds a deep awe lent 

To all that spring makes gay: 

O'er leaves on which, last glowing fall, 

The nimble rabbit leaped, 
There, now, was drawn a shining pall 

With dazzling jewels heaped; 

My cane I clinched as in a vise; 

I listened to my tread 
Upon the crusted snow and ice 

Which crowned the roadway bed: 

My collie gamboled, to and fro, 

To keep his body warm ; 
He delved deep down beneath the snow 

Which clung to his lithe form 

In pearls and diamonds as fine 
As- deck a kingly crown; 



We were, — myself and collie mine, 
The richest pair in town: 

These gems were ours; — the landscape; — air; 

(The purest ever breathed;) 
My heart had all but lost its care, 

As round my head it wreathed: 

The pines, upon the copse-clad hill, 

A requiem sang full sweet; 
But, what was this my blood made chill, 

Just there, beyond my feet? 

A silent form, — a man I saw 

Amid the gleaming snow, 
Asleep or hurt, in death's fierce jaw, 

I did, at first, not know: 

I hurried to the stranger's side; 

"Oh! are you sick?" I said; 
When "No!" he, stupidly, replied 

Whom I had feared were dead: 

I went for help, and strong men three 

Assisted him to rise; 
He wasn't injured; ah! not he! 

That stranger, so unwise! 

But, lying, there, amid the snow, 

He quickly, would have died 
If I had happened not to go 

Along that pathway wide; 

For, he, alas! poor, foolish soul! 

Upon the wine-cup red 
Had looked so long that o'er him stole 

The sleep that claims the dead: 

Oh, might this be a lesson long 

To all who love their wine! 
Oh, might they think of this short song! — ■ 

Drink water when they dine! 

A MODERN MINERVA 

(Dedicated to my neighbor, Mrs. Jones) 

I know a lovely lady, 

With locks of silver gray, 
Who, often, waves me grave salutes, 

While passing on my way: 

Her eyes are large and tender; 

Her smile is full as sweet 
As that of many a maiden fair 

Whom, ev'ry day, we meet; 



Her brow is deeply furrowed 
By the plough of Father Time; 

But, on her cheek youth's roses bloom, 
Tho' blighted some by rime; 

Her back is bent by burdens 
She's carried four score years; 

And bowed is head, as if in prayer, 
As Heavenly Goal she.nears; 

Once, straight as any pine tree, 

And nimble as the fawn, 
'Mid Mountains Green of old Vermont 

She tripped, each dewy morn; 

Or, fair as her famed namesake, 

(The wise Minerva tall,) 
She went about her household tasks, 

Beloved by each and all: 

Unlike the ancient goddess, 
She bears on breast no shield 

To turn beholders into stone, 
Upon the battlefield; 

For, on her gentle bosom 
Is borne the badge of peace, 

To lead her faithful followers on 
Where earthly conquests cease; 

Her step is slow, yet, steady; 

And, still, she walks abroad; 
Each week, she weeds her garden-plot 

Which, ne'er, hath she ignored; 

Her mind is clear and cloudless 

As, when at altar's side, 
She placed her hand on lover's arm 

To forth be led, — a bride; 

She's rather hard of hearing, 
But, those deep eyes of blue 

Watch ev'ry curve of speakers' lips 
To catch their accents true; 

Her heart is kind and steadfast; 

Her soul is pure and white; 
Each act is ever undefiled 

And free from soil or blight: 

And, as she nears the time mark 
Of four score years and ten, 

I wish each passing day more blessed 
By Him who loves all men! 

Then, when Death's Bark approaches 



29 



With slow and muffled oar, 
She'll hail, with joy, the Boatman grave 
To bear her to that Shore 

Where spirit speaks to spirit; 

Where all is peace untold; 
And where for seeds she's sown in love 

She'll reap a thousand fold! 

THE PEACE OFFERING 

Still stands the schoolhouse in the town, 

Tall maples it adorning, 
The weather-vane, on belfry-crown, 

Aglow in early morning: 

Long, long ago, a summer sun 

Streamed over it in splendor, 
And touched its blackboards, dark and dun, 

With kisses warm and tender: 

Its heavy doors, deep scarred and scratched 

By kicks of urchins vicious, 
By a teacher's hand were, now, unlatched, 

And in swept airs delicious: 

Besides the breeze, there entered, there, 
Where woman went to writing, 

A boy whose face of beauty rare 
Clear, hazel eyes were lighting: 

The sunshine shone on curling hair 

And eyes, brimful of grieving, 
As edged he towards his teacher's chair, 

Deep sobs his bosom heaving: 

At length, he moved her side more near, 
Then, threw his arms, so rounded, 

About her neck, and, in her ear 
This sweet confession sounded: 

"I'm sorry I was bad in school 
And caused you so much sorrow; 

But, I'll obey your strictest rule, 
Today, and each tomorrow!" 

And, then, upon her desk he laid, 

(With rosy cheek a-dimple,) 
A basket from a peach-stone made, — 

His sweet, peace off 'ring simple: 

That boy hath, since, a soldier been, 

For native country fighting; 
Imagine him in battle din, 

His hazel eye uplighting! 



The woman, now, is old and gray; 

Her school days, too, are ended, 
And, here, she pens this little lay 

Of him who footsteps wended 

To school, that morn, to tell his sin, 

(Some childish mischief, merely,) 
Bestow his gift, and pardon win 

From her who loved him dearly: 

Her prayer, today, is simply this, 

"Be thou as single hearted 
As when to me you gave that kiss, 

On yon bright day departed!" 

INDIAN BASKETS 

Beautiful baskets, all woven by hand, 
Made by the Indians, so tawny and tanned, 
Baskets, all sizes and shapes, and the hue, 
E'en, of the grass or the heavens, so blue; 
Buy, lady, buy just one basket of me! 
Surely, 'twill bring you its contents of glee! 
Here, they are bright as your beauteous eye, — 
Fresh as the cheek that with roses doth vie! 

Handkerchief baskets you see, here, so square; — 
Baskets for pins which you thrust thro' your hair; — 
Baskets for stockings, and others for gloves; — 
Work-baskets fine which each housewife so loves: 
These to the pleasant inn parlor I bring! 
Buy, ladies, buy whilst my song you I sing! 
Buy you a basket with sweet-grass entwined; 
Purer than perfume I know it you'll find ! 

Far to the north, on the Canada line, 
Where loom the cedar, the hemlock and pine, 
Where fragrant balsams rise, tier upon tier, 
Up to the tops of the great mountains drear, 
Grow, tall and straight, like young wood-sprites, so 

white, 
Thousands of birches, — the Indians' delight; 
Now, 'tis the bark of these birches, so fair, 
That, for these baskets, with skill, we prepare! 






Peeling the bark from the birch is a task 
Indians of women and girls, never, ask; 
But, when the bark in strips neatly is cut, 
Dyed of all hues of the rainbow, old hut 
Swarms with our squaws, ever solemn and staid, 
Swarms with small children and each dusky maid, 
Braiding and plaiting these baskets for you, 
Pale Faces fair, with your eyes of deep blue! 

Buy, ladies, buy of a poor Indian boy 

Just one bright basket! 'twill fill him with joy! 

And, when you look at your basket, you'll dream, 



30 



Dream of the camp, on a far, northern stream, 
Filled with the lithe, bronzed-cheeked maidens, 

there, 
Wrapped in rough coats and their own raven hair, 
Children of those who were, once, rich and free, 
But, who, today, are poor toilers like me! 

AN EVENING RIDE 

We rode along, my Love and I, 
Beneath the April evening sky; 
Behind, we left the dusty town, 
Which made its mark on coat and gown, 
And passed within the silent wood 
Where oaks, like armed sentries, stood: 

The boughs, with buds almost in leaf, 
Stood out in bold, distinct relief 
Against the red of yonder skies 
Which slowly paled to fainter dyes; 
And, soon, the evening star we traced 
Among the branches interlaced: 

Along the road, 'mong fern and brake, 
We knew the violet, soon, would wake; 
And, peeping thro' rough branchlets bare, 
The windflower was, already, there; 
But, now, the sky, once brilliant red, 
Frowned, cold and gray, just overhead: 

Deep darkness fell on all around; 
Thick vapors rose from out the ground; 
The smell of earth, upturned by plough, 
From fields afar, we scented, now ; 
Our cheerful chat to silence died, 
As on we rode thro' woodlands wide : 

Our horses' feet the only sound, — 
(A hollow thud upon the ground!) 
The one we drove knew well the way; 
The one I led, (a prancing bay,) 
Pulled hard the halter which I held; 
'Gainst going farther he rebelled: 

And, now, I could not see a trace 

Of any steed, or, e'en, the face 

Of him I nestled close beside, 

So grew the gloom of wildwoods wide; 

A nameless fear put out joy's light, 

As gripped I rope with all my might: 

But suddenly, the gloom grew gray; 

I dimly spied, upon our way, 

An opening 'mong the forest trees, 



And felt on face the freshening breeze; 
Rough pasture lands I, then, descried, 
Hemmed in by hills on either side: 

All this I saw in the gloaming's light 

That comes before the quiet night; 

On face of him, I knew so well, 

The strange, weird light of twilight fell : 

The horse, behind, his head tossed high, 

As tho' my power would he defy; 

Then, quick as thought, I felt a jerk; 
The line was snapped, and, in the murk 
Of that spring night, I heard the steed 
As off he sprang, at utmost speed; 
We sought to pierce the mist of gray 
Thro' which, now, roamed the runaway: 

Erelong, he climbed the sloping right, 
And, there, in profile, 'gainst the light, 
Where stars were smiling in the blue, 
We plainly saw our stallion new; 
Of giant height he seemed, tho' fair, 
A winged Pegasus most rare: 



Long years have flown since that spring night, 

When woodland shades obscured the light, 

Preventing me from catching trace 

Of curling locks and speaking face 

Of him who's passed from gloom to light, 

And, on the Holy City's height 

He walks, clear outlined 'gainst the sky, 
Where I shall see him, by and by, 
When thoughts like features, shall be seen, 
So strong shall be our sight and keen; 
And, then, like Pegasus, (who bore 
Aurora on his back,) he'll soar 

Along those towering, heavenly hills, 

And, never, feel the slightest ills; 

He'll quaff the springs, from rocks which burst, 

And, ne'er again, know burning thirst; 

Then, wait, my soul, till dawns the day 

When, there, like him, thou'lt speed away! 



AT THE CROSS 

Three crosses, reared upon a hill, 

Three living figures bore; 
And where sharp spikes were driven, still, 

Dripped drops of crimson gore: 



Upon the central cross there hung 

A man who, ne'er, did sin; 
Who spent his life the Jews among 

To teach them Heaven to win: 

Around him rang taunt, scoff and jeer 
From mocking mouths, so vile; 

And, e'en, the thieves, beside, did leer 
At Him who knew no guile: 

Amid the tumult dire and din 

His gentle voice they hear 
Forgiveness asking for the sin 

Of Jew and Gentile, near: 

But, still, the Crucified they mocked, — 
Rough soldier, scribe and priest; 

Crowds past the Cross, reviling, flocked, 
While gibes and sneers, ne'er, ceased: 

At last, the holy Martyr cried 

To God; His Spirit fled; 
When earthquakes shook the mountainside, 

And graves gave up their dead: 



The lightning flashed ; the rocks were 
And, 'mid the darkness weird, 

The bustling throng was backward bent 
When, round the Form Endeared 

A simple group, alone, was seen, — 

The Martyr's mother fair, 
Forgiven Mary Magdalene 

And John, th' Apostle rare: 

They feared not thunder, dark or rain, 
For, love possessed each heart, 

Love deep for One, now, out of pain, 
Who bore so well his part: 

We see them, as, below the Cross, 
They kneel in rev'rent grace, 

While teardrops tell the tale of loss 
On each, low-bowed, sweet face: 



Ah! how can we, at this late day, 

Forget to homage sing 
To Him who walked that weary way 

That Life He us might bring? 

FACES IN THE FIRE 

One winter night, in feudal times, 
Ere curfew bells had rung their chimes, 



rent; 



Three people, musing, sate 
Before a fire, upon a hearth, 
Which blazed and crackled loud in wrath, 

Exulting in its hate: 

The first, a woman, bent and gray, 
Long past the time for work or play, 

Who lived but in the past ; 
The second was a youngster fair, 
With merry heart and smile most rare, 

Whose looks were blaze-ward cast: 

The third was, yet, in manhood's prime, 
Whose feet were stayed, like birds' by lime, 

From mingling with the brave 
In other lands, where pike and sword 
Were pushing back the heathen horde 

From their Redeemer's grave: 

And, as these watched the flashing fire, 
That rose and sank, then, leaped up higher, 

One saw a charger white 
Which bore a knight, armed cap-a-pie, 
Before whose thrust the foe did flee, 

Such zeal was his, and might: 

The scene that pretty Cedric saw, 
As loud he heard the fagots roar, 

Was Santa Claus, most queer, 
With toys and candy stacked so high 
His pack seemed, e'en, to touch the sky, 

As towards him he did peer: 

The picture, there, that grandam cheered, 
Tho' dim her eyes, and weak and bleared, 

Was that of one, long dead, — 
The husband of her youthful days, 
Who seemed to gaze from out the blaze 

As on the night they wed : 

And, so it is in modern life, 

(No matter if of peace or strife,) 

We see what's in our mind, 
Whene'er we sit in inglenook, 
And, in the blaze, as in a book, 

We seek to, often, find! 

THE GYPSY BEGGAR'S SONG 

A Gypsy Queen am I, by birth, 
The fairest, once they said, of earth, 
With bosom brimming o'er with mirth ; 
My tresses, (like the raven's jet, 
Confined by neither pin or net,) 
My splendid, golden girdle met; 









32 



Eyes, dark as night, lit up a face 
Where ne'er a trouble left a trace, 
Tho' I were Leader of our race! 

My home was 'mong the mountains high; 
My mossy bed, the torrent nigh, 

'ercurtained by the sapphire sky; 
Above my couch, the comets bright, 
Like tapers tall, illumed the night 

Till Dawn's fair fingers quenched their light; 
And, then, I to the streamlet hied, 
And, by the babbling brooklet's side, 

1 combed my locks, — the gypsies' pride: 

Then, after tasting spotted trout, 
(So lately caught in wiers about,) 
They saddled me a pony stout, 
And, with my band of gypsies gay, 
I cantered off upon my bay, 
O'er cliff and crag, away! away! 
But, now, alas! my child is dead! 
With wane of beauty followers fled, 
And I, a Queen, must beg my bread! 

With eyes turned dim and hair grown gray, 

(No spot whereon my head to lay, 

Tho' blasts blow bleak and dark the day,) 

I pray, dear Dame, from out thy gold 

A little spare for gypsy old, 

And she thy fortune will unfold ! 

Her eyes, tho' bleared, can read thy heart! 

She knows what makes those teardrops start! 

She feels the pains that thro' thee dart! 

Remember this, my gentle Dove, 
That beauty holds a husband's love 
As sure as there's a heaven above! 
So, dry thine eyes and bathe thy face, 
And, in thy lovely gown of lace, 
Thy sweetest smile wear thou, a space, 
When thou shalt see the gypsy old 
Hath given advice worth thrice thy gold, 
And thou hast much, I have been told : 

Then, Lady fair, tonight, I'll pray 
That He, who made the gladsome day, 
May clear all briers from thy way 
And, as you wake, at rosy morn, 
You'll think of one, — a princess born, 
But, now, a beggar, all forlorn, 
Who, once, like thee, was young and fair; 
On whose bright brow sat, ne'er, a care, 
For, Love was hers beyond compare! 

Yes, love of husband and of child, 
Of followers, tho' uncouth and wild, 



Who, ever, on her beauty smiled; - 
But, when, alack,! her baby died, 
Her husband left the Leader's side, 
For, smile she couldn't, tho' she tried ; 
Her beauty faded; grew she old; 
No more, her round ranged gypsies bold, 
Till, now, she's neither home nor gold! 

Then, this let be a warning deep ! 
O'er nothing, Lady, long time, weep! 
Let all thy cares and worries sleep! 
A smile makes far more fair the face 
Than velvet, jewels rare, or lace; 
And nought can beauty lost replace! 
Remember all mankind hates tears, 
And, she, who smiling e'er appears, 
Herself to all the world endears! 



AN INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR 

The army lay in camp 

On ground with dewdrops damp, 
Each soldier wond'ring where the mail could be ; 

But, he, with news-bag strong, 

Drove on a mule along, 
His eye sharp scanning ev'ry bush and tree: 

And, now, his lonely way 

Thro' gloomy forests lay, — 
A stretch of fragrant, yellow pines, so deep 

The moon or starry light, 

From dusk throughout the night, 
Could not thro' sombre leafage even peep: 

The mule he could not guide 

'Long road he now must ride, 
So, gave the beast loose rein and trusted well, 

By instinct rare, he'd find 

The path thro' woods, pine-lined, 
Which led to where the friendly starlight fell: 

The rider heard no sound 

Save thuds, on leaf-strewn ground, 
Of steed's strong, clumsy, (yet, sure-treading,) 
feet ; 

The world seemed sound asleep; 

The silence was so deep 
He thought he heard his heart within him beat: 

i 

And, then, he held his breath ; 

'Mid stillness as of death, 
Thro' nodding needles soughed the balmy breeze; 

He thought it, first, a sigh ; 

Did rebel scouts, there, lie 
In ambush 'mong the sentinel-like trees? 



Then, "Halt!" rang loud and clear, 

From out the darkness drear, 
Quick changing ruddy cheek to ashen gray; 

Spurs pricked the brute's soft side, 

And, fast, thro' woodlands wide 
Fled mule and man along the narrow way: 

Each second, driver thought 

Aground should he be brought 
By grayback picket's whizzing, rifle ball; 

His raven locks uprose; 

His youthful blood quite froze, 
And o'er his flesh there oozed a clammy pall: 

At length, from woods he merged; 

Blood-stained the beast he'd urged, 
And weak and wet his form, so stanch, at morn, 

When, once again, he heard 

That voice; upon his word, 
An owl's it was, as sure as he was born ! 



But, soon, 'mong boys in blue, 

'Neath stars and falling dew, 
Around the bivouac fire, which flickered bright, 

The man his terror told, 

And loud were laughs that rolled 
Aloft, awakening echoes of the night: 



We met no mortal at gate or portal; 

The world seemed sound asleep; 
The redwings calling, our footsteps falling 

Spoiled not the silence deep: 

The air was fragrant with odors vagrant 

From clovers, crimson red; 
The bracken glittered; sly squirrels tittered 

In branches overhead: 

Abodes grew fewer, and I, wood-wooer, 

Was filled with deep delight; 
The sun was peeping thro' shades a-creeping 

Before Aurora bright: 

At last, surrounded by pines, that bounded 

Her form like guardsmen grim, 
The Lake, so lowly, at matins holy, 

We spied 'mid shadows dim: 

The guards, attending, their brows seemed bend- 
ing 

To list the prayer she said, 
Ere eyeballs, beaming 'neath crown a-gleaming, 

She raised above her head 

To where stood, smiling, the Sun, beguiling 

His time on her to shine, 
When she grew beaming, who, once, lay dreaming 

'Neath gloomy fir and pine: 



The cruel war is done; 

The courier's race is run, 
And blessed peace o'erbroods our country dear; 

In southern pines, today, 

Is heard the owlet gray, 
But, those who list have, now, of him no fear: 

May screech-owls in the pines, 

Where soft the night-wind whines, 
Ne'er, know the knell of warfare's awful might; 

But, crouched in lofty nests, 

Up-ruffle fluffy breasts, 
And hoot, "Hoo! hoo!" throughout the happy night! 



MASSAPOAG 



In bosom dripping were, ever, dipping 

The swift sandpipers brown, 
Their wings a-waving and bills a-laving 

Against her glitt'ring gown: 

A flower of gladness plucked I, in sadness, 

A-turning, then, away; 
The Lake a-leaving whose breast was heaving 

Beneath the Sun God's ray: 



In ancient ages, when woodland sages 

Were Indian Sachems fine, 
Why was't, O Water, a Warrior's Daughter 

Received a name like thine? 



The birds were singing; the breezes flinging 

Dewdrops from pine-tree crown, 
When Bob, eyes gleaming, and I, a-dreaming, 

Set out beyond the town: 



This name, — dost love it? Or, do thou covet 

Another, Massapoag? 
I'd know the meaning which to thy weening 

Is sweet, thou smiling rogue! 



34 



For your replying the echoes dying 

Of flapping pinions fleet 
Float o'er the water, dear Indian Daughter, 

My listening ear to greet! 

YE STARRY HOSTS OF HEAVEN 

Ye starry hosts of heaven, above, 

Thy countless ranks I see, 
(Throughout the silent night I love,) 

To, ever, westward flee 
Thy Captain's orders to obey, 
Whose call is, "Trim your lamps! Away!" 

On summer eves, I look for you 

Upon the welkin way, 
(When fades the day and falls the dew,) 

And note how faint each ray 
You shed upon the sultry air 
From out those lamps you keep with care ! 

But, when on winter nights, so cold, 

I gaze upon the sky 
To see how brave you are and bold, 

Upon your march on high, 
I joy to see how clear the light 
You cast t'illume the darksome night! 

How glad the sailor on the sea, 

The sheik upon the sands, 
When, in the gale or whirlwind, he 

Doth spy thy beauteous bands 
Whose legion lights along the sky 
Him show where lurking dangers lie! 

And, e'en, when beating rain or snow 

Obscures thy loving light, 
Each torch is burning bright, I know, 

On yonder far-off height, 
And, could mine eyes but pierce the veil, 
They'd see that, ne'er, thy light doth fail! 

So, like the shining, heavenly host, 

Am I resolved to go, — 
To do some little good, my boast, 

While marching, "Heavenward, Ho!" 
To flash my light along the way 
Which leads to Life and Endless Day! 

My torch is small; my light is dim; 

I can not throw it far; 
But, I my little lamp can trim, 

And, (like the smallest star 
In you, great galaxy of light,) 
Can shine my best while lasts the night! 



And, maybe, if I shine my best, 

Some sinful soul may see, — 
Some thought of God within his breast 

Be born at sight of me, 
And I may lead one heart to Him 
Who lit my lamp, altho' so dim! 

~ FEBRUARY 

Month of frost and snow-storms biting, 

Shortest month, tho' seeming long, 
Month, when gleeds all hearths are brightening, 

Take from me this simple song! 

Runnels, now, are sheathed in armor; 

Holt and hill with snow are white; 
Busy is each careful farmer 

Housing herds, at fall of night: 

Cocks' shrill calls are few and muffled; 

Short, but sharp, the caw of crow ; 
Jays' fair feathers blue are ruffled, 

As they roost on cedars low: 

Yet, there come rare days of mildness, 
Mingled close with terms of cold, 

Cheating man, who, in his wildness, 
Thinks that gone is Winter bold ; 

And he listens for the litorn, 

When the sun in gold hath set, 
Or the bellow of the bittern 

In the thawing marshes wet: 

But, without a second's warning, 

South wind's shifted sheer to west, 
And, before the rosy dawning, 

Ev'rything in frost is dressed: 

Dead and dreary look the marches, 
Where no meadowlark, now, rests; 

Lovely, tho', the drooping larches 
With the hoar-frost on their breasts! 

But, we know the season's coming, 

Know the day is almost here 
When we'll hear the bees a-humming 

O'er the moors, now, brown and sere! 

So, dear Heart, tho' cold and cheerless 

Look the dales and dells, today, 
Soon, shall come a moment peerless, 

When we'll list the bluebird's lay! 

Gone will be all snowy weather! 
O'er will be the piercing blast! 



35 



Then, we'll live in joy, together, 
All forgetful of the past! 



CLOVER HEADS 

(Dedicated to my departed Friend, Mrs. Pierce) 

Clover heads, clover heads, crimson as blood, 
Bathing the fields in thy radiant flood, 

Seeing thy blossoms, so lovely and fair, 
Smelling thy perfume, which fills the soft air, 

Carries me back on the old, foot-worn track, 
When, gay in heart, thought I nought did I lack; 

Back to a rare, sunny summer, in June, 

When sang the flowers of the fells in sweet tune, 

When, with a friend, over pasture and hill, 
Seeking thy charming, red blooms, bowls to fill, 

Often, we roamed, and, each time, the decree 
Was that no flower could compare, Dears, with 
thee! 

Now, my old Friend, on the Far, Shining Shore, 
Much brighter blossoms can cull, evermore; 

But, when she waits by the River for me, 
Clasped in her hand, clover heads I shall see; 

Clover heads, clover heads, beauteous and bright, 
Cover my head, when grows darksome the light! 

Ne'er shall I beg for a bit better shroud, 

When lieth low this meek heart, once, so proud! 

No richer mantle shall I, ever, crave, 
When, at the end, lie I cold in the grave! 

Then, when thy leaves flutter fast in the breeze, 
When kiss thy lips the bright, gold, honey bees, 

Then, shall I know, (as they flit, buzzing, by,) 
Then, shall I know that rare June-time is nigh! 

i 

Cover me, then, with thy canopy red, 
Dewdrops a-sparkling on each heavy head, 

Till I awake, nevermore, Dears, to part, 
Never again, from my June-time Sweetheart! 



36 



TO THE GREENWOOD COME! 

Oh, come to yonder forest green! 

Yea, come, dear Love, with me, 
And be my dark-tressed gypsy queen, 

Our tent, the cypress tree! 

Our pillows, tufted mosses green; 

Our couch, the graceful grass; 
Our candle-light, the moon's soft sheen; 

Say, wilt thou come, my Lass? 

The birds shall be our minstrels sweet, 
At morning meals, Queen mine; 

Shy hares shall serve us luscious meat; — 
The brooklet bright, clear wine: 

And, then, I'll dress thee, Gypsy mine, 

In squirrel skins, so soft, 
With coronal of gems that shine 

More bright than stars, aloft; 

These gems, — the dewdrops fair, (which deck 

The woods, at break of day,) 
Without a single flaw or speck, 

Shall all be thine, my Fay! 

And, Dear, I'll broider, ev'ry morn, 

Thy robe with flowerets rare; 
Real, living blossoms shall adorn 

Thy gown, unique as fair! 

Then, will you come, dear Love, with me 

And thro' the forest fare? 
Will my quaint Gypsy Queen you be, 

In yonder greenwood rare? 

If so, let's start when morning skies, 

(As darkly blue and clear 
As are my Darling's lovely eyes,) 

Have, once again, come here! 

When sunshine turns the treetops tall 

To fretted pillars fair, 
And, ringing thro' the forest hall, 

Bird carols fill the air! 

And, then, inhaling perfumes rare, 

Thine hand in mine held fast, 
Sweet Wildwood Queen, we'll onward fare 

Till summer days are past! 

A NIGHT WATCH 

On a raw, chill evening of early spring, 
(Far too cold for robin or thrush to sing,) 



A young man drew rein just before the door 
Of a country cottage, I see, once more, 
With the gloomy aspect that night it wore: 

After cordial greetings, (given clear, but, low,) 
With the hostess I thro' the house did go 
Till we reached a room near the kitchen neat, 
When, removing wraps, I, with noiseless feet, 
Crossed the floor to stand by the hearthstone heat: 

Then, I set me down in a rocking chair, 
Cushioned soft with chintz, (strewn with wildflow- 

ers fair,) 
And looked up at her, by the lamp's dim light, 
To receive commands for a watch, that night, 
With a maiden gaining o'er death the fight: 

The instructions were, "You're to give no drug 
To the lassie, there; simply, on the rug, 
Sit by fire, so warm, and, in patience, bide 
Till the morn creeps in thro' the hill-gaps wide, 
When you'll find me, Friend, you, again, beside! 



Not the slightest sigh from th' apparent dead; 
Only, once or twice, did a foot she move, 
Which small act my nerves did most deeply soothe, 
For, that motion she was alive did prove: 

It was eight o'clock when the watch began; 
And, for sev'ral hours, the swift seconds ran; 
But, by one .o'clock, I so sleepy grew 
That I'd given worlds had the cock but crew, 
Or some goblin risen before my view: 

Could I but have read some exciting tale, 
Making pulses beat, visage turning pale! 
But, the lantern light was too dim for that, 
And I dared not stir off the hand-made mat, 
For, the lassie'd heard e'en a creeping cat: 

I, now, counted minutes, instead of hours, 
With my sleepy eyes and benumbed powers; 
Then, I bit my tongue and my molars clinched, 
And, with falt'ring fingers my muscles pinched; 
But, to no avail, for, I, never, flinched: 



"If the lass asks drink, or, in her weak way, 
Some small favor begs, do not say her nay ! 
But, I've all arranged for the coming night; 
She will sleep, methinks, till the dawning light 
Scatters, far and wide, ev'ry elfin wight!" 

Then, I threw a glance to the end of room ; 
On a bed, resembling a cloth-draped tomb, 
Like a sheeted corpse, a slight figure lay, 
(Shaded well from lamp's small and feeble ray,) 
Giving heed to nought the good dame did say: 

Then, the wife her charge left with me, alone; — 

(A young girl I, never, had really known,) 

But, whose faithful mother, with watching worn, 

I had offered, now, to relieve, till morn, 

In a midnight watch o'er her frail first-born: 

In a few, short seconds, all household din 

Ceased, and, sure, I'd heard had there dropped a 

pin ; 
So, I settled me in the high-backed chair, 
With head backward bent, nose and chin in air, 
And both eyes on stained, mantel clock a-stare: 

Then, except for sticks crackling in the stove, 
And the wind, outside, which so rough did rove, 
This old clock's tick-tock was the only sound 
Which my wand'ring thoughts to this sick-room 

bound, 
As the hands, together, crept round and round: 

Not a murmur rose from the valanced bed; 



So, exhausted, both with the loss of sleep 
And the perfect quiet I tried to keep, 
Sank my heavy head on the old arm-chair, 
Fingers fell to lap, and, to realms of air 
From my heart pain faded and earthly care: 

From a nap,, (which seemed sev'ral hours long,) 
With a start, I woke, as tho' struck a gong, 
My eyes seeking timepiece with frightened face, 
When, behold! the clock, at his wonted pace, 
Had strode on, in truth, in his reckless race, 

But a short ten minutes; ah! me! how far, 
In that time, I'd travelled in Dreamland's Car! 
But, a deal refreshed, I, now, tried to keep 
Tireless guard, off-warding the Sprites of Sleep, 
Who loud laughed at me from the shadows deep: 

And the thought of loved ones, so snug in bed, 
Passed, in mocking mood, thro' my aching head, 
Till, it seemed to me, they were all heaven-blest 
With their drowsy heads on their pillows pressed, 
And with nought to trouble their nightly rest: 

Yet, the clock, at length, told the stroke of five; 
How the cock's shrill crow did my strength revive! 
In the room above signs of life I heard, 
And, what seemed far sweeter than barnyard bird, 
Was the noise of wheels on the drive which stirred : 

'Twas my husband coming for me, at last! 
(Tiresome watch o'er poor paralytic passed;) 



37 



And, when hostess entered with thanks to me, 
From the dead in life I was glad to flee 
Out to home and husband and morning, free! 

Tho' the wind blew east, piercing, cold and chill, 
As we climbed the road up the little hill, 
Beamed my eyes with joy, as I noted where 
Mulleins tall would torches, soon, lift to air 
To uplight a world to me, now, thrice fair: 

Since my vigil, there, in that stifled room, 
With its close-drawn curtains and spectral gloom, 
I have felt no lot is too hard to bear, — 
That each life, no matter how great its care, 
Is God blessed if lived in His cheerful air! 



BEGINNING OF LABOR 

The morning light is breaking 
O'er forest, field and fell, 

The birds sweet music making 
In dingle, dale and dell: 

The sylph-like mists are creeping 
Up yonder verdant hills; 

Down yon steep crags are leaping 
A thousand sparkling rills: 

Each flower from waxen chalice 
Flings forth a drop of dew; 

Apollo, from his palace, 
Peeps out to paint the blue 

With palest tones of amber 
And shell-like tints of rose 

To pay the early rambler 
For leaving his repose: 

In western skies, the beauty, 
Dian, grows pale and white, 

But, feels it her sweet duty 
To shine, with lessened light, 

Till Phoebus, in his glory, 
Shall fire the landscape fair, 

And, then, grown wan and hoary, 
She vanishes in air: 

From distant farms the crowing 
Of cocks is heard, no more, 

But, songs of reapers, mowing, 
And mill wheels' whir and roar: 

The calm and restful feeling, 
That darkness brings, is done; 



38 



Day's work is onward stealing; 
'Tis, truly, now, begun! 

MY BOOKS 

I shall, ne'er, find friends more faithful, 
If I scour the great world wide, 

Than the elves which hide in covers 
On the book-shelves at my side: 

They will chat, if I am ready, 

Or be silent at a word ; 
They can sing the sweetest carols 

Which a mortal ever heard: 

When my heart is hot and heavy, 

And my life seems full of care, 
Merry elves across the ocean 

Take with me a journey rare; — 

Climb with me the Alpine summits, 
(Gleaming white, against the sky, 

Like tall priests in snowy cassocks, 
On God's icy altars high,) 

Chanting words so sweet and soothing 

That my heart-ache flees away, 
Peace and Harmony's fair angels 

In my bosom holding sway: 

When a howling, beating blizzard 

Clamors at my window-pane, 
With my elves I stroll thro' gardens 

On the slopes of sunny Spain: 

On some sultry noon of August, 

At a tap on bookcase shelves, 
Of th' oppressive heat quite heedless, 

Now, come forth my happy elves, 

And, with them, in lovely Venice, 

On the Grand Canal I row, 
(Fanned by cooling, evening breezes,) 

'Neath the silver moonbeams' glow: 

When I feel my Heavenly Father 
Doth, no longer, list my prayer, 

From their homes in paper covers 
Forth come elfin troops, most fair, 

In their tender language telling 
Of a God whose name is Love; — 

Of His many mansions holy 
In the starry skies above: 

When my wicked soul is tempted 






To commit some deadly sin, 
Then, I turn to them close hiding 
On my shelves from dust and din; 

Soon, a psalm or touching poem 
Make the tears from eyelids start; 

Daring devil's cast behind me; 
Calm and quiet fill my heart: 

Do you blame me when I tell you 
That my blithesome book-elves bright 

Are among my friends the dearest, — 
Are my life, my love, my light? 

God be praised for th' art of printing! — 

For the men and women grand 
Whose best thoughts bright booklets scatter 

Thro' the length of ev'ry land! 

BOB WHITE 

Oh, come with me to the meadows low, 

When sunset's blush on night's cheek doth glow; 

When hot July sends the reapers brown 

To mow, with zeal, the plumed grasses down, 

At the hour when gently the south wind blows 

The cat-tails tall, standing stiff, in rows, 

Like warriors grim, with their glaives unsheathed, 
O'er all the swamp with the loosestrife wreathed, 
And, then, you'll hear, echoed loud and clear, 
A sound you'll wait in delight to hear, — 
The Quail's sweet call, in the fading light, 
Which seems repeating, "Bob White! Bob White!" 

And, then, again, you, my Friends, may say, 

"More wet! more wet!" pipes the songster gay; 

But, this sweet bird, in mixed waistcoat dressed, 

With collar black and wee, jetty crest, 

Doth whistle, plainly, to me and say, 

"Bob White! Bob White!" at the close of day! 

UNDER THE TRYSTING TREE 



Wait, Darling mine, for, there's nothing can keep 
Me from thy side but Death's last, dreamless sleep ! 

Under the trysting tree, my Fair, 

Wait, when the sky is red, 
Wearing a rosebud in the hair 

Crowning thy queenly head! 
Oh, how I long on thy lips mine to press 
And to hear, "Thee I love!" them to confess! 

Under the trysting tree, my Sweet, 

Far from the village hum, 
After the weary toil and heat, 

Let us, this gloaming, come, 
Giving our hearts and our eyes leave to speak 
All the devotion for which speech is weak! 

Under the trysting tree, my Sweet, 

Meet me, ere falls the dew! 
Happy, we'll sit upon the seat 

Fitted for just us two, 
Fashioned by fays on the roots of our tree, 
Cushioned with moss just as green as can be! 

Under the trysting tree, ma Belle, 

Wait for thy lover true! 
Wait, for, he's something sweet to tell, 

Old, yet, forever, new, — 
What ev'ry lover, from Adam of old, 
Sure, to his sweetheart beloved hath told! 

Under the trysting tree, dear Love, 

Plight me thy troth, tonight! 
Plight it in presence of God above, — 

God and his Angels bright! 
Plight it, and, truly, our pine tree, in prayer, 
Lowly will bend o'er my Bride-to-be, fair! 

Dear, to our trysting tree, some day, 

We must, both, bid farewell, 
When I shall bear thee far away, 

Far from where, now, we dwell, — 
Bear thee away as my beautiful Bride, 
In whose dark hair a red rosebud shall hide ! 



Under the trysting tree, dear Love, 

Wait, when the sun is low! — 
Under the rustling leaves above 

Thro' which the breezes blow! 
Wait till I come, for, I'll surely, be there! 
Wear, dear Love, too, a red rose in thine hair! 

Under the trysting tree, Heart mine, 

Wait, when is done the day! — 
Under the branches of the pine 

O'er which the squirrels play! 



Yet, our old trysting tree, dear Love, 

Never, shall we forget! 
Neither its bole nor boughs above, 

'Neath which we, nightly, met! 
But, we shall wonder if sweethearts as true, 
Then, seek its shelter, as falleth the dew! 

LEARN TO LOVE THE TREES! 



Have you never paid a visit 
To the fairy forest wide, 



39 



On some charming morn of summer, 
When the trees stand, side by side, 

Real, true monarchs of the wildwood, 
Some with sweetheart, some with bride? 

Stalwart oaks, their mossy branches 

Stretching o'er the forest floor, 
Like cowled monks a blessing asking 

At some open convent door, 
While the breezes, softly sighing, 

Sing, "Amen! forevermore!" 

Graceful maples, clean and shapely, 
In whose tops the tempests play, 

And, where birds, tho' rocking, rolling, 
Sing their sweetest roundelay, 

Clearly ringing thro' the forest, 
On some merry morn of May: 

Have you chanced upon a willow, 
Standing close to some small stream, 

Leaning o'er the wimpling waters, 

Lost, as 'twere, in Love's sweet dream, 

Dropping tassled blooms upon it, 
Prayerfully, it, e'en, might seem? 

Clustered birches you must, surely, 
Oft, have seen, so patient, stand, 

(In their gleaming, ghostly garments,) 
Like pure nuns, who, hand in hand. 

Wait, in silence deep, for orders 
From the Higher, Better Land: 

And the pines, the tall, straight pine-trees, 
In whose boughs the night winds sigh, 

In whose spires the gentle zephyrs 
Whisper secrets from On High; 

Oh, how lovely they, at sunrise, 
When the dews on spindles lie! 

Thus, I might go on to mention 
Chestnuts, elms and spruces tall, 

Mingling with the larches graceful 
In each leafy, forest hall, 

Where the notes of thrush and robin 
Tell us we should love them all! 



DEATH'S ANGEL 

(In memory of my late Father, Mark J. Folsom) 

He came, at last, — that Angel, 

Awaited long, in vain ; 
He came, and, oh, so gently, 



He soothed my Father's pain: 

His hand, (soft, cool, caressing,) 
On fevered brow he laid ; 

Each furrow swiftly vanished, 
Was smooth as marble made: 

He touched his bosom lightly, 
And breathing easy grew; 

O'er mild, brown eyes the curtains, 
In tenderness, he drew: 

He whispered words of gladness 
Which brought to lips a smile ; 

He hushed his heart's quick beating,- 
That heart which knew no guile: 

And, then, just like a mother 

By babe in cradle deep, 
He calmed him with his presence 

Until he dropped asleep; 

When, sealing lips, forever, 
He stilled his flutt'ring breath, 

And stamped upon his forehead, 
"He lives! this isn't Death!" 



Reveille, ne'er, will wake him 
To meet his country's foe! 

No more, 'neath starry banner, 
To war he'll bravely go! 

For, in that blessed Country, 

(In which he woke, this morn,) 

The inmates, pure and lovely, 
To perfect peace are sworn: 

He fought earth's battles, nobly! 

The vict'ry he hath won ! 
He's earned the Crown Eternal 

And heard the words, "Well done!' 

No criticising finger 

Can show a deed of shame! 
He leaves a glowing record, — 

A bright, untarnished name! 



Oh, grant me, God in Heaven, 
That I may meet, some day, 

My grand, my noble Father 
Who walks the Higher Way! 



40 



FAIRY BLUETS 

In some small, open glade of the dim forest old, 
Where the club moss peeps out from the dark, rich, 

earth mould, 
Where the bracken unrolls her loose spirals of 

green, 
And the flash of the fire-bird, so often, is seen, 
Should you searchingly seek, on some early May 

day, 
When the bluebird is singing his clear roundelay, 
You might spy on the slope of the upland a sight 
Which would fill your kind heart with the sheerest 

delight, 
For, before you would stand, 'neath the gray, chilly 

sky, 
Quite a group of court ladies, scarce three inches 

high, 
Dressed in palest of blue, with gold crowns on 

brows bright, 
All a-nodding and bowing to left and to right; 
And, near by, on her throne, (twined with cin- 

quefoil, so green,) 
In her purple, dew-decked, their loved violet-queen, 
Drooping low her fair face to her courtiers' praise 

sweet, 
Which they, over and over, so gayly repeat; 
Yet, not one of their words can your dull hearing 

catch, 
Tho' you bend low above that one phrase you may 

snatch : 
And the keen, raw, spring wind may blow hard and 

blow cold, 
Yet, the little, court ladies, with hearts stanch and 

bold, 
Will continue to bow and to bend to the gust, 
Ev'ry spring, till our bodies shall moulder to dust: 
Then, God bless you, ye dainty, pale bluets, so fair, 
In your blue, evening dresses and coronets rare, 
For, no matter how strong be the breeze, or how 

fast, 
You will gracefully courtesy in the teeth of the 

blast, 
Cheering on hopeless hearts with the promise of 

days 
When the Rose, in her beauty, will bloom to God's 

praise ! 



Stands a small, but, strong-built structure square, 

'Gainst whose bulwarks, in a gale, 
Dashes waves so high that none would dare 

To approach by oar or sail: 

And, for fifty years, the pharos light 

Hath been kept by one most brave, 
Who, each half-hour, wakes throughout the night 

That some sailor she may save: 

Once, her form was of a goddess tall, 

With bright eyes and hair of jet; 
But, the sea hath let its spray down-fall, 

Whitening locks, abundant, yet: 

And her hero heart is just as stout 

As it was, that fearful day, 
When she launched her dory, rowing out, 

Thro' the snow and sleet, o'er bay, 

With no shoes upon her firm, young feet, 
(Thick, soft hair, sole coif for head,) 

To drag forth from surges, icy, fleet, 
Drowning soldiers, well-nigh dead: 

At eight diff'rent times, her boat she's launched, 
Since, as lass, she watched the light, 

And her nerve's, ne'er, failed, nor cheek's e'er 
blanched 
As o'er Death she's won the fight: 

And, tho' medals, silver and of gold, 

Of her brav'ry witness bear, 
And, tho' tales, by scores, have oft been told 

Of her wondrous courage rare, 

In the Lime-Rock Lighthouse, glistening white, 
Round which billows roar and dash, 

Ida Lewis tendeth, still, the light 
Lest the cruel rocks should gash 

The great ocean liner's mighty side 

Or the pleasure boat's frail keel ; 
And these vessels, ev'ry one, confide 

In this heroine's deep zeal: 



A HEROINE OF THE SEA 

On a wind-swept, wave-washed, rugged rock, 

In famed Newport's harbor fair, 
Where, on stormy nights, the sea-birds flock, 

Thither drawn by lime-light glare, 



Ida Lewis, may thy fearless heart 
Beat for twenty years, and more! 

May you, long, pursue your peaceful part 
On that rocky islet's shore! 

When the God of Storms each rock doth veil 
In a sheet of mist and spray, 



41 



And His voice is heard upon the gale, 
As it will at the Judgment Day, 

May thy loving fingers, skilled tho' old, 

Trim the gleaming, beacon light 
To guide, safely, faithful seamen bold 

Thro' the perils of the night! 

(Miss Lewis passed away since the foregoing 
lines were written.) 

THREE FATES 

No doubt, you've seen, full many a time, 
A picture, (limned by a hand sublime,) 

Of female figures three; — 
One, young and blonde; one in her prime; 
And one o'er whom the storms of time 

Have raged, for years, in glee: 

The first spins Life's slight, slender thread; 
The second, (of the peerless head 

And form mature and fair,) 
Holds Life's soft, subtile, cobweb line; 
While she, (the sere and withered vine,) 

To snip the thread doth dare: 

Now, o'er my life the Spirits three, 
(I trust may float in love o'er me 

Till loosed is silver cord,) 
Are, all, in womanhood mature, 
With faces sweet and longings pure, — 

The blessed of the Lord: 

The first, (upon whose faultless head 
A halo grand of gold is shed, 

In shape of ringlets bright,) 
Grasps firmly, in her lily hand, 
A lyre whose strings her breath hath fanned 

To tones of music light: 

The next, whose coils of nut-brown hair 
Shade eyes of gray, (a thoughtful pair,) 

Holds close to breast inspired 
A manuscript, whereon is traced 
A score of tuneful verses chaste, 

To write which, ne'er, she's tired: 

The last, whose orbs of lustrous blue 
Gleam clear 'neath curls of ebon hue, 

In shapely left hand white 
A palette holds with colors torn 
From rosy skies that greet the morn; 

While, with her skilful right 



The rolling waves of ocean blue 
Or towering mountain height; 
And, yet again, a woodland wide 
Thro' which a brawling brook doth glide 
'Mong ferns and mosses bright: 

So, each fair Fate, who, on her part, 
(By music, poetry or art,) 

Would stir the unemployed, 
Will you, my Friend, if her you seek, 
Raise up from states of knowledge weak; 

And, then, you'll find you buoyed 

To richer realms of thought, until, 
(Beneath her magic power and will,) 

Each second short will glow 
With sounds of rapture, words of love, 
Ideals of beauty, (born Above,) 

Whence streams of transport flow! 

Then, bide with me, ye Sisters Three, — 
Ye lovely Fates, (from whom doth flee 

All sordid thoughts impure,) 
And, never, leave me, but, inspire 
To thoughts of rapt and holy fire 

Which shall to death endure! 



VALUE MORE HIGHLY YOUR PEARLS! 

Lady fair, in whose rich, raven ringlets 
You've just twined a pearl fillet superb, 

As you toy with the beautiful trinket, 

Doth no thought of its worth you disturb? 

Don't you see, on the breast of far ocean, 
A light skiff anchored fast in the sand 

That lies low 'neath the surface of waters 
Which by scorching sea-breezes are fanned? 

Don't you note the dark-skinned, naked savage, 
(With a bag round his neck firmly tied,) 

Now, preparing to dive to the bottom 
Of the sea with rare oyster-shells pied, 

Which he'll scrape in a pile with deft fingers 

And plunge rapidly into the sack? 
By a rope, then, be hauled in the row-boat, 

When brain reels and keen eyesight grows black? 

And, when waking from lethargy death-like, 
Don't you notice the small, paltry sum 

He receives for the dangerous labor 

Which the blood in his ears makes to hum? 



She sketches forms of nature, true, — 



Just enough to keep children from starving; 



Not sufficient life's needfuls to buy, 
While the pearls in the shells he hath gathered, 
(Which, in pride, 'mong your tresses you tie,) 

Sold for hundreds of gleaming, gold ducats, 
You paid out from your purse without thought 

Of the poor, wretched, Indian diver, 

Who, thro' depths of the deep, them hath sought 

But, hereafter, my grand, gracious lady, 

When you lift from their casket your pearls, 

Breathe a prayer for the indigent diver, 
For his wife and his wee, baby girls! 

And most precious esteem the gems shining, 
Snatched from hiding beneath the sea blue 

By the zeal of a poor fellow-mortal, 
Who the fruits of his toil sent to you! 

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME 

Where-e'er on earth I roam, 

By mountain, lake or stream, 

I, ne'er, forget my childhood's home, — 

A lowly cot, 'neath Heaven's blue dome, 

Near San Francisco Bay's white foam, 

That's gold in sunset's gleam : 

In an oak's refreshing shade 

The humble cottage stood ; 

And, 'mong the leaves, which, ne'er did fade, 

A swing was hung, where I, a maid 

In frock of common print arrayed, 

Let, "Die old cat!" of wood: 

Before, a sward there lay 

Of living green, so rare, 

Wide-strewn with blossoms bright and gay, — 

A brilliant carpet, fit for fay 

To tread upon when on her way 

To dance with brownies fair: 

Against the sapphire sky 
Rose Mount Diablo grim ; 
Upon his heavy head, so high, 
A crystal crown of ice did lie; 
And gentle rain or zephyr's sigh 
Could melt not e'en its rim : 

When weary of my ride, — 
The scene of snowy mount, 
With playful collie at my side, 
I'd watch the slowly ebbing tide, 
And, on the sandy beach, so wide, 
Its scattered shells I'd count: 



Then, tired of this sweet play, 

With dog beloved, I'd race 

Along the curving beach of bay, 

Above which seabirds winged their way, 

My heart-strings pulled by the plaintive lay 

That echoed far thro' space: 

When paused I by the sea, 

To list its~ soothing song, 

My faithful collie, full of glee, 

(Who took such loving care of me,) 

Would stand a-watching at my knee 

Lest something should go wrong: 

Oh, Alameda fair, — 
The Land of Flower and Fruit, 
Would I might leave these regions bare 
And to thy charming courts repair, 
Where I would sit me down, fore'er, 
To sing thy fair repute! 

AN AUTUMN DRIVE 

(Dedicated to Miss Alma S. ) 

'Twas a morn in bright September, 
When the air was fresh and sweet, 

Sweet as e'er I can remember, 
After days of scorching heat, 

That a gentle-hearted maiden 

Kindly took me on a drive 
Where the busy bee, deep-laden, 

Gathered honey for the hive; — 

Past poor cots and mansions lordly, 

Perched on terraces of green, 
Past fair meadows sloping broadly 

Down to silver lakes between : 

And a holy peace seemed drooping 

O'er the rural scene, so fair, 
As the turning leaves came trooping 

Down from gorgeous maples rare: 

Soft, the cooling breeze caressing 

Breathed on neck and brow and hair; 

Sweet, the falling leaves, in blessing, 
Kissed our happy faces bare: 

Plump, brown Bobby, sleek and shining, 
Needing, ne'er, the touch of whip, 

Well obeyed the hand confining 
Clad in tan to finger tip: 

And that hand, encased in leather, 



43 



To a lass belonged most sweet, — 
Sweet and sensible and clever 
As I, e'er, have chanced to meet: 

With her curls the zephyrs dallied, 
Bringing blushes faint to face, 

As the roadside asters rallied 

To eclipse her eyes' bright grace: 

I was pleased to watch the lassie, 
With her pretty manner sweet, 

As we dashed by lowlands grassy, 
Spread out fair before our feet; 

And shall, ne'er, forget the pleasure 
Winding rustic roadways o'er, 

Whilst I morning's joy shall measure 
By the look the maiden wore: 

To her golden locks, (so curling,) 

To her merry eyes of blue, 
To her heart, (so truly sterling,) 

I inscribe these stanzas few! 



When dark clouds scud before autumn breezes, 
And dry leaves pile the pavement, knee-deep, 
When the golden-rod nods by the highway, 
Faded, dusty and heavy with sleep, 
When fringed gentians we tie 
In bouquets, soon to die, 
Hie in haste Fritz, my collie, and I ! 

When the roads and the trees and the meadows 

Glisten brightly with jewels most rare, 
When relentless Jack Frost nips the fingers 
Of the poor, little lad with hands bare, 
Wading wide thro' drifts high, 
Perhaps, all wonder why 
Wander on Fritz, my collie, and I ! 

Maybe, far in the Happy Hereafter, 

On the fair, everlasting, green hills, 
Where the glittering sunshine shall filter 
Thro' the trees on the soft, rippling rills, 
I may see a bright eye 
And may hear a glad cry, 
When, to welcome me, Fritzie will hie! 



May she ride behind her pony 

Over upland, vale and plain, 
By the brook, o'er pathways stony, 

In the sunshine, snow or rain, 

Ev'ry day, dispensing gladness, 

As she did, one morn, to me, 
From each soul dispelling sadness 

By her cheery laugh of glee! 

And may, never, Time, so active, 
Spoil that simple, child-like grace 

Which to me is more attractive 
Than her loveliness of face! 

FRITZ, MY COLLIE, AND I 

Delving deep in the bogs, before breakfast, 
For marsh-marigolds gleaming with gold, 
Searching roadsides for violets hidden 

Beneath leaves all discolored with mould, 
When the sun's low in sky, 
Should you look, should you spy, 
There will roam Fritz, my collie, and I! 

'Neath the shade of the wide-spreading maples, 

When the clouds float so light overhead, 
Where wild-carrots bow low in the breezes, 
Thro' the church-yard, (where rev'rently tread 
The shy chipmonks who vie 
With the bee buzzing by,) 
Frisks about Fritz, my collie, and I! 



VERSES TO A BUTTERFLY 

Hail to thee, glorious Spirit, 

Charming creature of radiant mould, 

Flitting fast onward and fleeing 

From each thing that corruption doth hold! 

Poising thy beautiful body 

On thy delicate, gossamer wing; 
Sipping clear nectar and honey 

From sweet flowers whose corollas outfling, 

Fast, thro' the air, purer incense 

Than is burned by the priest in yon fane ; 

Happy, yet, striving, oh, ever, 

For a world still more fair, yet, to gain ; 

Hast thou, O insect, so lovely, 

Quite forgotten thy gross, earthly state, 

When thou didst crawl in thy vileness, 
And all shunned thee, alas! in their hate? 

Didst thou, O beauteous being, 

E'en imagine what might be thy fate, 

Whilst thou lay dormant and dreaming 
In that strange, torpid, chrysalis state? 

As, from a worm, so unsightly, 
Was developed the butterfly bright, 

So, may I hope, in like manner, 

By the love and the power of God's might, 



44 



Some time, this body, so sinful, 

May exchanged be for one most divine, 

(House of ineffable beauty,) 
For this restless, sick soul, here, of mine! 

May I, dear Lord, like the insect, 

In a grander and holier sphere, 
Thoughts lose of earth life, so sordid, 

In delights that will, there, then, appear! 

Clothed in white garments immortal, 

On swift pinions, which cleave the pure air, 

Fleet, may I glide o'er the mountains, 
When, at eve, fitful shadows they bear! 

And, may my soul with contentment 

Be filled full, when, redeemed by God's Love, 

Tasks I pursue, as commissioned, 

In that boundless, bright Home, up Above! 

ON THE MAIN-TRUCK 

In Portsmouth Harbor, long ago, 

A ship at anchor lay 
Whose streamers danced in many a row 

Along the bowsprit gay: 

Against the keel the wavelets curled 

And sang a hornpipe light; 
The sunshine sank on sails unfurled 

And turned them dazzling white: 

Each mast and spar in sunbeam light 
Gleamed out like burnished gold; 

But, on the deck, (a fairer sight,) 
Stood a boy, scarce four years old : 

A smile of joy lit face, so fair, 

As gazed he o'er the sea; 
The breezes dallied with the hair 

That almost touched his knee: 

He looked aloft where smiled the sky; 

He peered at yonder mast, 
And brightly beamed his azure eye 

To see its flag fly fast: 

Unnoticed by the busy crew, 

Unseen by Captain Good, 
The tiny youngster thoughtful grew, 

As 'neath a spar he stood: 

At length, he nimbly climbed the mast, — 

(An agile monkey, he,) 
And, 'fore the seamen's eyes aghast, 

On the main-truck high, in glee, 



Upon his stomach small he lay; 

(A speck he seemed in air,) 
Far gazing o'er the land-locked bay, 

To childish eyes how fair! 

Like statues, on the deck clean-swept 

Stood captain, crew and mate; 
And, close beside, the mother wept 

At lad's most likely fate: 

No word was spoken ; not a cry 

Escaped their lips of stone; 
And, there, the boy, on the main-truck high 

Lay happy, yet, alone! 

No thought had he, that urchin brave, 

(A sailor truly born,) 
Of anything save sky and wave, 

That charming, June-time morn: 

At last, to earth his mind returned, 

And down the mast he slid, 
With dimpled cheeks, which brightly burned, 

In tangled curls half hid: 

At friends' reproving accents, mild 

He looked in grave surprise ; 
But, no one dared to scold the child, 

So guileless, yet, so wise: 

This fearless boy, of whom I speak, 

To ripened manhood grew, 
And gray grew locks that stroked his cheek, 

And dim grew eyes of blue; 

But, love of ocean's billows bright 

In Grandpa's bosom lay 
As deep as when, from the main-truck's height, 

He gazed o'er Portsmouth Bay! 

AMONG THE PINES OF KEARSARGE 

At the foot of a mountain, clothed ever 

In its kirtle of redolent pine, 
Stands a house, and, beyond the small clearing, 

Grows the forest primeval, divine: 

In the midst of this wood a wee streamlet 
Softly murmurs a chant, as it flows, 

Of a mound, on its bank, strewn with spindles, 
Where the calumet hides from its foes: 

But, the brook feareth much lest some vandal 
Will discover the flower near his wave, 

And uproot waxen bloom which would blacken, 
All unshrived and unwept, in its grave: 



45 



A big boulder, (now, hoary with ages,) 

Seamed and scarred by the lightning's fell stroke, 

Daily, lists to this dirge, so pathetic, 
As around his gaunt figure a cloak 

Of gray mosses and lichens he foldeth, 

Fettered feet being kissed, 'neath his dress, 

By the cool, wimpling waves of the brooklet 
Who loves well his old friend to caress: 

On the top of this boulder four people, 

Often, seated themselves to enjoy 
The scene sylvan spread out, there, before them, 

And to read where no discords annoy; 

But, the Sprite of the Spot cast her glamour 
O'er the page they had come to peruse; 

They were held in the magical clutches 
Of the whimsical, coy Woodland Muse; 

They saw nothing but clear, dimpling wavelets 

Softly laving the velvety sod; — 
Far above them, green boughs overarching 

Like a beautiful temple of God: 

And they heard nothing else than the music 
Of the gurgling, low-splashing hill-stream, 

Or the notes of the redbreast and bluebird 

As they warbled their summer day's dream: 

Each could feel in his heart love for only 
The three others who on the rock lay, 

For the birds, for the brook and the boulder, 
And the beautiful, midsummer day: 

So, whene'er I turn over the pictures 

In the casket of memory laid, 
I look, long, at the one of the brooklet, 

'Neath the pines of Mt. Kearsarge made; 

And I hope those three friends, (now, far distant,) 
The sweet lady, young man, merry boy, 

Sometimes, see the same scene as the writer 
Who can, ne'er, the loved picture destroy! 



LINES TO THE STORMY PETREL 

Bird of the boundless sea, 

Fearless in flight and free, 
Silent art thou skimming over the bay! 
Emblem of storms to be, 
Full is thine heart of glee! 



Loud is thy lay and clear, 

When the wild tempest's near, 
Warning the sailor to reef ev'ry sail! 

When dost, O Bird, thou rest? 

Where is thy rocky nest? 
How findest thou food in the furious gale? 

Black is thy plumage rare! 

Small is thy figure fair, 
Skirting the crests of the waves running high! 

Strong are the wings which bear 

Thee o'er the ocean where 
Roll the rough billows delighting thine eye! 

Wee Stormy Petrel bright, 

Gay in a gale of might, 
Thou hast a name right well suited to thee, 

Walking upon the wave, 

Crying not, "Lord, oh, save!" 
But, trusting in Him who controls the deep sea! 

ORION 

Thou warrior, born of the ox's hide, 
Who wooed Diane as thy chosen bride, 
But, lost thy life at thy sweetheart's hand 
As the sea you waded, far from land, 

In lovely autumn, each frosty night, 
I see you kneeling, alone, in fight; 
And brightly gleameth the glaive of gold 
You take not, e'er, in your hand so bold! 

At two o'clock, in the stilly night, 

I've looked at thee on yon heavenly height, 

And seen Diane, in the azure east, 

Gaze, proud, at thee, as you fought the beast! 

No grander sight in the welkin blue 
Can, Orion, we, ever, see than you, 
With golden girdle and star-spurred heel, 
As, there, with taurus you, nightly, kneel! 

And, Warrior, thou dost not notice me, 
As, full of wonder, I gaze on thee! 
Thou art, by far, too much occupied 
To think of any the bull beside! 

I dread the time when you fall from sight, 
For, wind and rain follow fast thy flight! 
But, gay I'll be at your glad return, 
When bright your belt of three stars shall burn! 

WHAT IS THINE AIM? 

What's the goal of thine ambition? 



Oh, once, to see thee, when ocean grows gray! What the zenith of thy hope? 



What, the dream of youth and manhood? 
What, the end towards which you grope? 

Dost thou aim to be possessor 

Of old Ophir's mines of gold? 
Dost thou crave the sparkling jewels 

Which dear Mother Earth doth hold? 

Dost aspire to carve in marble, 

Or, on canvas to portray 
Forms, which all but breathe, so truly 

Doth thy hand clear thought obey? 

Dost thou pant to move the nations 

With thine eloquence to tears? 
Wouldst thou thrill all music lovers 

With thy songs, each, spell-bound, hears? 

Dost thou long to sway the sceptre 

O'er republics, grand and old? 
Or to hold the magic baton 

Over mighty armies bold, 

And to dye the sod bright scarlet, 
Whilst the wind thro' cedars green 

Chants low masses for the dying, 
Tho' no mourner, there, is seen? 

"No," methinks I hear thee answer; 

"No, for me have these no charm! 
Life's deep dream hath been, forever, 

To but be a healing balm 

"To the weary, sick and friendless; — 

To each broken-hearted soul 
To whom Life is but a burden; — 

O'er whom Death's dark waves would 



"I would be the blessed bearer 

Of those living waters pure, 
Which, from everlasting fountains, 

Spring up, fresh, to, e'er, endure! 

"I would speak sweet words of kindness, 
Which, in tones of rustic rhyme, 

May re-echo in the chambers 

Of their souls, throughout all time, 

"To uplift them, soothe them, cheer them, 
Let them learn that God is Love; 

That He, never, will forsake them 
Till they reach His Home Above!" 



roll! 



BIRD VESPERS 

Within ten minutes' walk of where I dwell doth 

stand 
As great and grand a temple as is found in all our 

land ; 
Its fretted vault's upheld by many a colonnade 
Of pillars, crowned by friezes fair as human hands 

e'er made: 

No stained glass windows keep the light from 

streaming thro' ; 
The sun and shade mosaics make on pavements 

damp with dew; 
No off'ring's, ever, asked in this cathedral bright 
Except a heart pure, true and free from ev'ry gross 

delight : 

The splendid gates are open throughout the live- 
long night, 

And, yet, no thief breaks thro' to steal communion 
service bright; 

For, dainty cups are blooms of violets, so blue, 

And salvers, each, are acorn cups all braided thro' 
and thro': 

Inside the ample nave a host could kneel in prayer 
And, yet, from morn till dewy eve, no worshiper is 

there ; 
On mighty transept floor the ear detects no tread ; 
From chancel rail to arches high 'tis silent as the 

dead: 

The cloisters are forsaken; no monk, in gown of 

gray, 
Now, kneels on checkered, leaf-strewn floor to weep 

or, e'en, to pray; 
No friar at font is seen to make the sign of the 

cross ; 
The sunshine floods archaded aisles thro* oriels, 

green with moss : 

But, when the sunset stains fagade with rosy light, 
When vesper bells are softly swayed by gentle 

winds of night, 
Then, fast, to stalls ascend, in surplices and beads, 
A thousand, barefoot acolytes who loudly say their 

creeds : 

The winged canon clearly chants, from th' altar 

nigh, 
"Cantate Domino!" till vault of gold, so broad and 

high, 
Now, fading into blue, re-echoes with the sound 
Of vast, bird choir and organ of the winds, so 

sweet, profound: 



And, when the mass is o'er, and laymen, all, have 

heard 
The, "Dominus vobiscum!" ev'ry rev'rent, waiting 

bird 
Bows low, until, "In pace vade!" shakes the air, 
Then, thro' the great cathedral, each one sinks in 

silent prayer: 

The service, now, is done; the priest has left his 

throne ; 
At th' altar kneel a dozen friars, in cassocks black, 

alone ; 
The breezes swing the bells in leafy turrets tall; 
The congregation's fast asleep within that heavenly 

hall. 



ERE FALLS THE BLESSED EVENTIDE 

(To my Friend, Mrs. Belle F.) 

Ere falls the blessed eventide 

In benediction on the day, 

While yet the sky with rose is dyed, 

I love, alone, to steal away 

To yonder hillside slope, so green, 
Where sunny rays the longest stay, 
And where the morning light is seen 
The first on ev'ry gladsome day: 

I love to stroll the walks along, 
Beneath the old, majestic trees, 
And list the birds' sweet, goodnight song, 
And feel the freshening, evening breeze: 

The chipmonk stares at me, ere, fast, 
Along the stony wall he leaps; 
And, sometimes, as I wander past, 
From headstone high a sparrow peeps: 

I hear the crickets chirp, "Goodnight," 
As o'er the sod I softly tread; 
No living person is in sight, 
Alone, I walk where lie the dead: 

Below the hill, o'er meadows wide, 
From many a cot gleams out a light; 
But, here, alone, some grave beside, 
I linger on, as falls the night: 

I feel that God is nearer me, 
Right here, when falls the eventide, 
Than elsewhere that I, e'er, can be 
In this great world, so round and wide; 



And, as o'er one low bed I bend 
To lay fresh wildflowers it above, 
I pray my Father strength to lend 
To her, whose heart, so full of love, 

Is racked with grief and dire despair, 
As comes she here to sigh and weep; 
Who feels her burden hard to bear; 
Her cup of sorrow far too deep : 

And, when she kneels to weep and pray 

Beside her darling, eldest son, 

Oh, let it be at close of day, 

When household duties all are done! 

Then, fill her soul, so sad and worn, 
With holy quiet of the hour! — 
With peaceful calm which here is born 
Like fragrance in the wayside flower! 

And, when she wends her way, at length, 
Towards lonely homestead in the vale, 
Oh, may she feel renewed her strength 
By Him whose love will, never, fail! 



WALLACE AT THE BATTLE OF STIR- 
LING 

(Fought about two miles from Stirling, near 
Kildean Bridge) 

Forty thousand Scottish yeomen 

By the River Forth did wait, 
Standing on the purple heather, 

Ev'ry soul deep-fired with hate; 

And their Leader, William Wallace, 

Huge of size and brave of heart, 
Waited, too, for the invaders 

With strange calmness on his part: 

Right in front, a bridge lay, narrow; 

And on this his eyes were cast, 
Watching till five thousand English 

O'er this wooden bridge had passed: 

Two by two, they crossed in silence, 

Armed with spear and strong cross-bow, 

Gazing, with intense defiance, 
At the seeming helpless foe: 

Not a plume on Scottish bonnets 

Had, as yet, to stir been seen ; 
Now, they, ev'ry feather, fluttered, 

And the Chieftain's accents keen 



48 



Broke the silence with this order, 
"Forward to the foot of bridge! 

Let no more of English cross it!" 
When, Scots, left upon the ridge, 

Heard, again, with bosoms beating, 
"Down, with me, on those this side!' 

And, before the British army, 

Those five thousand, quickly, died,- 

Cut to pieces by the Scotchmen, 
Who, in fury, slew their chief, 

Making horse-whips, in derision, 
Of his royal skin, in brief : 



The Roman citadel, so gray; 
But, this, alone, she prayed; 

"Give me the shining things you wear 

Upon your arms and breast! 
Give me these things, and I will swear 
That thro' the gates you, all, shall fare 

Ere Phoebus sinks to rest!" 

This the brave men agreed to do; 

And, watching for her chance, 
Down to the gates the damsel flew, 
And, opening them, there filed them thro' 

The foe with bow and lance: 



And, as none dared cross the foot-bridge, 
In the face of England's foe, 

Wallace won the Fight at Stirling, 
Long, long centuries ago. 



But, as the faithless one they passed, 

Inside the citadel, 
Shields from their arms the Sabines cast 
Upon the girl, and hurried fast 

Ere pealed th' alarum bell: 



PERFIDY'S REWARD 

Fierce frowned the Roman fortress fine 

Above the Tiber's tide; 
High on the famed Capitoline, 
Divided from the Palatine 

By marshes wet and wide : 

Here, in the ancient fortress strong 

The chieftain's daughter dwelt; 
On the fresh breezes fell her song, 
As, with the stream, that swept along, 
The girl contentment felt: 

But, when she glanced to where the foe 

Among the meadows lay, 
Slow grew her girlish song and low, 
As, in the sunlight's gleaming glow 

Flashed out the armlets gay 

All of the Sabine soldiers wore, 

While brighter beamed her eye 
Looking upon the chains they bore 
On bosoms to be stained with gore, 
In battle, by and by: 

Envy and grudging for the gold 
Filled young Tarpeia's breast; 
Avarice made the maiden bold, 
As thro' her brain a project rolled 
She, soon, put to the test: 

Ere dawned another sunny day, 

A message sent the maid 
Pledging the Sabines to betray 



Crushed by the bucklers, shining bright, 

The lass lay lifeless, there, 
Slain for her treachery, that night, 
By those who reckoned might was right, 

But, deemed no traitor fair! 



WISH FOR A SUMMER VACATION 

(To my Friend, Mrs. Susan P ) 

May thine heart be filled with gladness, 

Thro' thy summer holiday, 
Sitting, there, beside the borders 

Of delightful Onset Bay! 

As you watch the ebbing waters 
Break in foam upon the sand; 

As you gather polished pebbles 
Flung, each day, upon the land; 

As you look on mighty ocean, 
And the heaving of his chest; 

As you see the sun, each gloaming, 
When he seeks his well-earned rest; 

As you gaze upon the splendor 

Of the crystal water's tide, 
When Diana flings her banner 

O'er the rolling ocean wide; 

As you watch huge vessels vanish 
O'er old Neptune's curving rim; 

As their sails grow faint and ghostly, 
And their hulls becometh dim ; 



49 



As you feel the swift-winged zephyrs 
Cool your browned and burning brow; 

As you shudder at the tempest 
Which bears death upon its prow; 

As you listen to the murmur 

Which the wavelets sing of home; — 

To the screaming of the sea-birds, 
When, in flocks, they skyward roam; 

As you bathe your throbbing temples 
In the flood, so cool and clear; 

Let your thoughts, my Friend beloved, 
And your eyes, without a tear, 

Look beyond the tossing ocean, 
E'en, beyond that Shining Sea, 

Where a Loved One stands a-waiting 
Till thy spirit shall be free! 

Till he hears the Angel Pilot, 

(Watching on that River's Bank,) 

Say that which, for years, he's listened, 
And for which he God will thank: — 

Those sweet words, "A sail!" will echo 
O'er the swift and shining Stream; 

And the Pearly Gates will open 
To receive you, in a dream ! 

Just a few, short years, remember, 
And that Sea, like Onset Bay, 

(Only just a little fairer 
In the light of Perfect Day,) 

On its breast will bear us travellers 
To the great and Pure White Throne, 

Where account we both must render; 
Where Our Father will condone! 

So, today, as, there, you ponder 
By those waters, blue and bright, 

Think of when we two shall gather 
Round that Sea which knows no night! 

ARACHNE 

On yon casement's cobwebbed corner, 

Howsoever dark the day, 
In her dusty, cheerless castle 

Sits a little lady gray, 
Ever watching for some stroller 

Who may hap her way to stray: 

If, by chance, a luckless traveller 
Open gateway passes by, 



To the top of spiral staircase, 

(Where, in state, the dame doth lie,) 

He will venture, always, wond'ring 
Whither leads these stairs so high: 

At the top, the dazed wayfarer 
By the gracious dame is met, 

(In her soft, gray gown, so silken, 
Setting off her eyes of jet,) 

And, extending hands, in welcome, 
Lo! the stranger's in a net! — 

In a snare of turret chamber, 

(Up in yonder castle high,) 
Spun by tiny, gray, old lady, 

In the casement coin, near by; 
And this snare is but a spider's, 

And its prey, a silly fly! 

Once, this tricky, artful spider 

Was a Grecian maiden gay, 
Taught to weave by wise Minerva, 

And, so perfect, legends say, 
Was her web, she dared to challenge 

Her great teacher fair, one day, 

To a trial of her weaving, 

And, in guise of woman old, 
Wise Minerva warned the damsel 

To desist from boastings bold; 
But, the maiden, still persisting, 

Took the goddess, we are told, 

Proper form, and, then, accepting 

Challenge of the daring lass, 
Girl and goddess set to weaving 

On the dew-bespangled grass, 
Shuttles making magic music, 

As thro' webs they swift did pass: 

But, the subjects, chose by damsel, 

Gave offence to goddess fair; 
So, she struck her bold opponent, 

Sev'ral times, on forehead bare, 
With the shuttle she was using 

In this contest, strange and rare: 

Now, the proud and haughty maiden 
This effront so ill could brook 

That she hung herself, soon after, 
In a gloomy, lonely nook, 

And the goddess, then, relenting, 
Turned the lass, (so late, forsook,) 

To a spider, called Arachne, 

And she spins and weaves, to-day, 



50 



In the self-same, peerless manner 

As when she, a damsel gay, 
Wise Minerva called to combat, 

In her bold and brazen way. 

CLIMBING MOOSILAUKE 

When Woodstock's rural village 
Had scarce from sleep awoke, 
When birds were carols singing 
Because the dawn had broke, 
We left the homes of men, 
(The valley, mead and fen,) 
To wind our way, 
That summer day, 
'Mong haunts of fairy folk: 

Behind, we left the daisies, 

Which starred the meadows green; — 
Behind, the crimson clover 
And buttercups' bright sheen; 
In leafy shades, instead, 
We saw, on mossy bed, 
With blushing cheek, 
So gay, yet meek, 
The partridge-berry lean: 

We spied within the forest, 

(Which seemed to have no end,) 
Fern coverts where the fairies 

Their magic wands might mend; 
Or, where the brownie folk 
The calumet might smoke, 
And strike a light 
From berries bright 
On dwarf cornels which bend: 

The chestnuts, oaks, bronzed beeches, 

And silver birches, too, 
We left far down the mountain 
All bathed in gleaming dew; 
And, now, the tall pine bold, 
Spruce, hemlock, (green, tho' old,) 
Spread arms on high 
To veil the sky 
From eager tourists' view: 

The way grew steep and rugged; 

Steeds sturdy tugged and sweat, 
The straggling sunbeams stealing 
Thro' boughs that o'er us met; 
At length, we drew the rein, 
And left the clumsy wain 



To quench our thirst 
At springs which burst, 
Beside us, clear as jet: 

Then, after resting horses, 

We clambered up the height, 
Our foreheads fanned by breezes, 
Eyes -charmed by vistas bright, 
The solemn stillness deep 
Each making silence keep, 
And breathe a prayer 
Thro' the holy air 
Of woodland wilds of might: 

We seemed the only humans 

Upon this earthly sphere, 

And, yet, we gazed in rapture 

Because we felt no fear; 

Tho' tongues gave forth no word, 
To notes of praise was stirred 
Each traveller's heart, 
Which, on its part, 
Was poet, sage or seer: 

And, now the pines primeval 

Grew scattered, few and small; 
The bracing breeze grew chilly, 
And gone was greenwood hall; 
Above us bent the sky, 
Of perfect azure dye, 
In which the sun, 
(His work half done,) 
Seemed set, — a topaz ball: 

Behold! upon the summit! 

The rocky top so bare! 
Here, tufts of hardy sandwort 
'Mong mosses gray, yet rare! 
Alone, beneath the sky! 
Alone, beneath God's eye, 
And, spread below, 
A goodly row 
Of queenly crests, so fair, 

Who doff their ice tiaras, 

Each spring, and kneel around 
This Monarch of the Mountains, — 
Great Moosilauke renowned; — 
A titan old, yet strong, 
(The theme of poets' song,) 
Who looks in pride, 
But, finds no bride 
'Mong all those maids uncrowned! 



51 



ELEGY TO TIME 

Zook not upon the past! 'tis fled! 

Nurse not its sin or sorrow, 
For, they're no longer thine! they're dead, 

And are not fit to borrow! 

Enough of trial brings the day 

Without the burdens bearing 
Of days which, now, have passed away 

Beyond our ken or caring! 

Gaze not upon the coming morn 
With too much mirth or gladness! 

Tomorrow's sun may, never, dawn 
Or bring you woe and madness! 

Shrink not to see the future day! 

Thy fears may prove ungrounded, 
And, ere the night, thy ringing lay 

May show thy bliss unbounded! 

The present is the only hour 

Which nought to us denyest; — 
When we may have it in our power 

To do and dare the highest! 

Then, let us grasp the moments fleet 

That come our way, once, only! 
The seconds we may make most sweet 

Or sorrow-bearers lonely! 



The scene, portrayed on paper, so realistic seemed, 
Methought the sun, in summer, on Sandringham 

bright beamed; 
Methought I heard the barking of English setters 

rare 
That gamboled round the figure of Alexandra fair, 

Who stood, — a sweet Diana, amid her canine band, 

Some dainty morsel off' ring from out her shapely 
hand 

To one who seemed the monarch of all those brutes 
high-bred, — 

Their Prince, their King, their Leader, their Su- 
zerain, their Head: 

The tidbit lay so tempting in Queen's small palm 

of white; 
The setter's dark eyes sparkled like lustrous orbs 

of night; 
But, still, he stood reluctant the bit of sweets to 

take, 
Tho' Alexandra urged him to eat it for her sake: 

His Mistress was an Empress; yet, was not he the 

King 
Of all these noble creatures who formed round her 

a ring, 
A-yelping and a-whining her Majesty to see? 
Ah! Why should he, — their Sovereign, a wretched 

gormand be? 



DIANA AND HER DOGS 



"Ah ! No, my royal Mistress, more honor 'tis to kiss 
Those beautiful, white fingers! No higher joy 
than this!" 
Thro' crowded shopping districts I trudged with And, so, he stands before her, — the grandest of his 

tired feet, race, 

The mercury at ninety, my blood at fever heat, Before the Queen of Beauty, of Gentleness, of 

When, in a large shop-window, there met my daz- Grace! 

zled eyes ^ **#***#*„ 

A handsome, steel engraving of more than moderate 

size: Oh, might I own this picture of England's stately 

:, Queen 

No longer, feet were tired ; no longer, head was hot ; Among her loved grandchildren and dogs of regal 
The blinding glare from pavement stones, in truth, mien! 

I heeded not ; For, I'm a friend devoted of ev'ry dog I see, 

The jostling of bystanders, (the sickening, stifling Much more of dogs of breeding, of dogs of high 

air, ) degree 1 

The deafening din of traffic, no more, were hard 

to bear; And, then, this model Mother, this Wife and Queen 

so true, 
For, suddenly, from Boston, in smut and smoke and This pure and noble Lady, with eyes of heavenly 

smell, blue, 

I went to merry England, forevermore, to dwell, — Is just the type in woman of all that's good and 
To live, — a loyal subject, in that blest isle, so green, sweet! 

Reigned o'er by good King Edward and by his love- Oh, may I, some bright morning, this fair Diana 
ly Queen: greet! 

52 



NEEHDAM 

Oh, Needham, charming Needham, 

Were I but fitted, now, 
To wreathe a crown of poesy 

For thine unsullied brow! 

Thy people, quiet, kindly, 

Have hearts of uncoined gold ; 
And deep respect of ev'ry man 

The sires of Needham hold! 

Thy hills are crowned with forests 

Among which houses hide, — 
The mansion grand and lowly cot, 

Where all in peace abide: 

On many a sunny roadside 

A pleasant schoolhouse stands, 

Where scores of happy children flock, 
Each morn, in merry bands: 

And, then, on ev'ry Sabbath, 

"To prayers!" the church-bells chime 
From out their wooden turrets tall, 

At vesper hours and prime: 

Where, once, Nehoiden camp-fires 
Glanced weirdly towards the sky, 

Now, auto and electric car, 
At lightning speed, whiz by: 

Thy streets are broad and shaded 

By trees, on either side, 
That interlace their loving arms 

Above the highways wide: 

The air is pure and bracing, 

The drinking-water clear; 
The many shops are furnished well, 

And prices are not dear: 

How lovely are thy lowlands, 
When white with meadow-rue, 

Which lift aloft their haughty heads 
To look askance at you! 

The wildflowers, all, are plenty, — 
Tall asters, blue and white, — 

The windflower fair which droops its head 
To fill us with delight: 

Nowhere, you'll find more splendid, 

More beauteous maple-trees, 
That sway and swing and bow and bend 

In summer's gladsome breeze; 



And, when in gorgeous autumn, 
They stand in scarlet clad, 

They show us, in their dying joy, 
How death may us make glad: 

The birds love, here, to carol, — 
(The chickadee and jay, 

The oriole and bluebird shy,) 
In morning roundelay; 

And, those, in early springtime, 
Who rise the sun to greet, 

Will hear tree-sparrow melodies 
Most ravishingly sweet: 

Oh, Needham, lovely Needham, 
I wish thee joy in store! 

Prosperity, in all its forms, 
I wish thee, evermore! 



DEVIL'S BROOK 

On a misty, April morning, 

When the clouds of rain gave warning, 
Bobby Burns and I set out upon our way 

Up the Glendale Road to rove, 

With the birds, in grot and grove, 
All, inviting us to make a longer stay! 

But, we had to say, "Good morrow!" 

To them, each, altho' in sorrow, 
For, it was our purpose fixed to farther stray 

To a stream, we'd seen not, yet, 

(Much to mine and Bob's regret,) 
Tho' in Sharon we'd abode for many a day: 

As the roadway rough descended, 

Bob and I our steps down-bended, 
Ent'ring, soon, a pathway thro' the forest old; 

Here, the trees stood thick around, 

And, upon the sodden ground 
Broken birches lay, — the sport of tempests bold: 

Here and there, a pine we sighted, 

Like a green-gowned lass benighted 
'Mong the massive oaks and chestnuts bare and 
bold; 

Or a shad-bush, clad in white, 

The bright bride of yesternight, 
Wasting all her sweetness on the wooded wold: 



53 



As the winding way I wended, 
By my faithful dog attended, 



Dark and dismal seemed the silent, leafless wood, 

Where no robin's carol rung, 

Where no rabbit leaped among 
The dry leaves that lined the ground on which I 
stood : 

All was lonely, here, and dreary, 

And my steps grew slow and weary, 
As of ghosts and goblins grim I grew in fear; 

But, turn back I, never, could, 

For, to see the stream I would, 
Be the famous brooklet far, or, be it near! 

In the distance, soon, we listed, 

As the foot-path gently twisted 
Past slim saplings, (bent and blasted by the gale,) 

A strange murmur, faint and low, 

As of breezes light which blow 
Thro' the whisp'ring reeds that floor the tansied 
swale : 

Then, as pushed we onward, deeper 

Thro' the wood, the way grew steeper; 
Ever downward, still, our falt'ring steps we bent; 

And the murmur louder grew 

Till a rushing sound we knew 
Like wild waters wight in rocky channels pent: 

Then, the rush became a roaring, 

And, before my eyes adoring, 
Thro' an opening in the wildwood, I espied 

Devil's Brook; and, named 'twas well, 

For, the foaming current fell, 
With a demon's dreadful laughter, at my side: 

"Follow me!" it cried, and, howling 

Like the imp it is, or, growling 
Like a rampant lion raging in his wrath, 

'Twixt gray boulders bare it sprang, 

While the echoes loudly rang, 
As it hurled itself along its horrid path: 

Foam and froth, from jaws a-gnashing, 

On its bosom lay a-flashing 
In the moisty, April morning's sombre light; 

While the rocks, (it whirled away 

On some far-back, distant day,) 
Crouched around the monster, now, afraid to fight: 

Far above, like spectres frowning, 

Stood a wood, the hills a-crowning, 
Looking dark and dun against the clouded sky; 

But, no motion made a tree 

To prevent that spirit free 
From his work of ruin made while tearing by: 



Full ten yards each side the torrent, 
Where his flying feet abhorrent, 
In the spring, had spurned the soft and yielding 
earth, 
Not a bush or shrub or tree, 
In its beauty, could I see; 
Where this brooklet blustered flowerets few had 
birth : 

Long, I stood, there, watching, waiting, 

In the tumult ne'er abating, 
Awed by this, — Dame Nature's work, so grand, 
yet, dread; 

Then, I turned me in my track, 

And to Sharon Town went back, 
Feeling I had been in Hades with the dead! 

So, if, Friends, you go a-hieing, 

'Neath the chestnut trees a-sighing, 
To the ramping, raging brook the dale adown, 

Go, when summer clothes the trees 

In their tender green, and bees 
Sip sweet nectar from the forest flower's crown! — 

. When a drought hath curbed the anger 

Of the streamlet, and, in languor, 
Nymphs and dryads peep from ev'ry leafy tree!— 

When the redwing stoops to drink 

At the brooklet's rocky brink, 
Singing softly to his sweetheart, "Con-quer-ee !" 



LAY OF THE MEADOWLARK 

Gracefully perched on a tree, growing near 
Where lies a nest made of grasses so neat, 
Mat of the Moorland, each May-time, you'll hear 
Name of the season to gayly repeat; 

"Spring o' the year! Spring o' the year, 
Surely, is here!" 
Clear as a fife, yet, as soft as a flute; 
None who's once heard can its sweetness refute! 

Mat of the Moorland is gaudily dressed, 

Wearing a doublet of dark, grayish brown; 
Black is his neckcloth, and yellow the vest 
Fastened with ebony buttons adown; 
"Spring o' the year! Spring o' the year! 
Say! Do you hear?" 
Yonder, he stands on that branchlet above, 
Singing a lay to his dear, little Love! 

Sitting on four tiny eggs, bluish white, 

Speckled with spots of a deep reddish brown, 

Patiently waits, from the morn till the night, 
Matthew's meek matron in rumpled-up gown; 



54 






"Spring o' the year! Spring o' the year! 
Wife, I am here, 
Close to the tussock of grass where you hide, — 
Close to our house in the mead, green and widel 

"Soon as each chick chips its delicate shell, 

I shall stop singing; a family man, 
Fast growing old, I may be; who can tell? 
Searching for seeds, worms and bugs, — all I can; 
Spring o' the year! Spring o' the year! 
Listen, my Dear! 
Pray that the reaper come not to our home 
Ere downy nestlings are ready to roam! 

"Never fly up, should the fowler stray by! 
He will not see you, if quiet you keep! 
Never, he'll know where the dear nestlings lie, 
Close 'neath your breast, where they've fallen 
asleep ; 
Spring o' the year! Spring o' the year! 
Nought will we fear! 
Shabby 's grown suit that I, once, thought so fine, — 
Grown just the hue of the grass, Sweetheart mine! 
None can detect from the grasses, so brown, 
Either of us in his dull, dingy gown, 
If, only, quiet you're sure, Dear, to keep, 
There, with our babes 'neath your bosom asleep!" 

MARCH 

Old March hath come with searching gust; 

At city corners whirls the dust; 

The pretty maids their faces veil, 

And bend, like reeds, before the gale; 

Loose straws and papers run a race 

Before fierce March's frowning face; 

The house-blinds creak; on panes the blast 

Knocks briskly as he scurries past; 

And, out upon the marches wide 

He hurries on with swifter stride; 

But, by the lake, the alder swings 

Its catkins red, as loud he sings; 

Beside the pond, the willows burst 

Their silver buds they, long, have nursed; 

Beneath their armor, thin as lace, 

Each brooklet shows its smiling face, 

And rare are roundelays they sing, 

Because, once more, hath come the spring; 

Tho' bleak thy breath, the robin plumes 

His wing, (where, soon, the lilac blooms 

With perfume sweet will fill the air, 

And charm the eye with colors rare,) 

Then, makes a nest of mud and straw, 

Nor minds thy blasts, so keen and raw, 

But, trills his love-song, sweet and clear, 

On branchlet bare or fence-rail, near: 



Blow on, cold March, o'er hill and dale! 
Your manner's rough, but, ne'er, you'll fail 
To bring, when all your bluster's o'er, 
Soft zephyrs fair and flowers, once more! 
So, tho' you make us cower, low, 
O'er hearths where burning embers glow, 
We love you, well, for what you bring, — 
The sweet, fair flowers of early spring! 

SILVER WEDDING BELLS 

(To my old Friend, Edith S ) 

Sweet was the air with perfume rare; 

The starry welkin, bright; 
Banished, each carping, earthly care, 

On that, — thy nuptial night! 

Never, the moonbeams lightly kissed 

A fair, young bride more pale, 
Looking a lovely, "Maid o' the Mist," 

In filmy, bridal veil! 

Clearly the words were spoken, then, 

Which maiden made a wife; — 
Turning her lover, (blest of men,) 

To husband fond for life: 

Twenty-five years away have crept 

Since thou, an envied bride, 
Out from the altar slowly swept 

At handsome husband's side: 

Sunshine and shadow, grief and joy 

Thy wedded life hath checked; 
Azrael took thy first-born boy; 

(Well-nigh, thy peace was wrecked:) 

But, in good time, God gave to thee 

Two more bright, baby boys, — 
One, now, a man ; one, near thy knee, 

The dearest of thy joys! 

Ring, Silver Bells, oh, ring, tonight, 

To tell old comrades dear 
Time hath not touched the Bride, so bright, 

Who waits your presence, here! 

Still, you will find her, (say, oh, Bells,) 

As slender as of yore! 
Still, shine those eyes, where lovelight dwells, 

As brown as years before! 



Blessed of Our Father, for all time, 



55 



Be lives of Groom and Bride! — 
Happy and cheery till a chime, 
Again, rings, far and wide, — 

That chime of Golden Bells, so sweet, 
Which rings for, ah! so few, 

But, which I pray may, yet, repeat 
Its lay, loved Friends, for you! 



VENUS 

Oh, thou beautiful star of the evening, 

(Fairest planet to me in the sky,) 
When thou sheddest thy light from the welkin, 

Thou dost bear me, in thought, up on high 

Where thou sittest, — a queen on her dais, 

While around thee glow worlds of less light, — 
Stately ladies-in-waiting celestial, 

With their brows bound by diadems bright; 

\ 
These fair stars, — thy hand-maidens, so charming, 

Gleam and twinkle, like sparks, in the sky, 
While thou shinest in calm, brilliant grandeur, 

Deigning, e'en, with Diana to vie! 

For a part of the year, after twilight, 

Thy loved light glitters, clear, in the west; 

Whilst, for months, just a bit before sunrise, 
Thou dost charm weary watchers to rest! 

It is strange that the name which we give thee, 

Oh, thou loveliest lamp in the dome, 
Is not that by which Ancients did know thee, 

When thou shone, ages past, o'er their home ! 

I have read that sweet Hesperus gentle 
Was the title gave they thee, at night, 

When thy beams thro' diaphanous ether 
Glistened, gladly, lone travellers to light! 

But, at morn, ere great Phoebus were stirring, 
When yon blue by thy radiance was riven, 

(Like an all-seeing eye of protection,) 
Then, proud Lucifer's name thou wert given! 

Now, to us thou art she they called Venus, 
Who was born of the foam of the sea, 

And was blest with rare beauty immortal 
To entrance you, dear Reader, and me! 

So, at eve, I await her appearance, 

And when flooded is earth with her light, 

From my heart there upsprings admiration 
For this glorious queen of the night! 



A LONE WAYFARER 

Intense had been the heat 
Throughout that long and sultry, summer day, 

Down-bending bearded wheat, 
Which, in the dewy morn, had looked so gay, 

And burning sere and brown 
Each pennyroyal patch upon the sandy down: 

But, late, that afternoon, 
A heavy shower came down to all revive ; — 

The greatest, grandest boon 
That heaven could send to panting mortals live, 

And ev'ry beast and bird, 
(As well as man,) to deepest gratitude was stirred: 

When, then, the rain was o'er, 
To watch the fast declining god of day, 

I set me down before 
My cottage door, (like a happy child, at play,) 

And laughed like one to see 
The raindrops gleam like gems on ev'ry bush and 
tree: 

A rainbow in the east 
Unrolled its painted pinions on my sight, 

And, like a pagan priest, 
Stretched out its hands in blessing on the night, — 

A night which promised well 
Long hours of sweet repose to those on earth that 
dwell : 

I noticed not a sound 
Save droppings of the jewels bright from trees 

Upon the sodden ground, 
And, still, sat breathing in the balmy breeze, 

That fanned my burning brow, 
When, glancing up, I saw a creature fair enow 

For fairy land, I trow, — 
As beauteous as the rosy-fingered dawn, 

Or, yonder, bright rainbow, — 
A slender, spotted, young and graceful fawn, 

Which trotted 'long the road 
As fearlessly as if thro' woodlands wide she strode: 

I saw her lustrous eye, 
As by my modest, cottage porch she passed, 

And thought no star in the sky 
More brilliant than the lovely light it cast, 

When 'cross the way she went 
And thro' a garden sweet with pale blush-roses' 



56 



I watched her disappear 
From sight behind a nodding, Norway spruce-tree 
tall; 



I watched her, ah! in fear 
Lest she in hands unkind should, somehow, fall; 

But, never, to this day, 
Heard I that any evil met her on her way: 

Deny it, he who will, 
That there's a Power Protective in the air, 

Which, e'er, on copse or hill, 
Such timid creatures as this fawn, so fair, 

Leads safely to their home, 
Whene'er, by chance, thro' paths of danger dark 
they roam! 



MOTHER LOVE 

'Twas a day in the middle of summer, 
When the sky shone blue and bland 

O'er the wide meadow lot where the sunshine 
streamed hot 
On the farmers' faces tanned; 

And the brooklet, which slept in the rushes, 

Begged the mowers, grave or gay, 
Of its waters so sweet, in such vanquishing heat, 

To partake without delay; 

But, the head of the house had provided 

An abundant bev'rage bright, — 
The strong drink which to men false strength lend- 
eth, and, then, 

Changes day for them to night: 

Now, the farmer's loved son, stout and sturdy, 
Crowned with curls of chestnut hair, 

And an eye of the hue of brunellas, so blue, 
In the harvest field was there; 

And the ghoul, which gushed out from the flagon, 

With fresh froth on lip and beard, 
At the lad looked and laughed, as the liquor he 
quaffed, 

Till his eye grew dull and bleared ; 

And, ere long, o'er those eyeballs, so peerless, 

The flesh curtains fain would fall; 
And those feet, (once, so fleet,) in the now scorch- 
ing heat, 

Scarce could bear their weight, at all; 

Of the long, wooden rake, which he handled, 

He lost hold, against his will, 
Whilst the haycocks danced round on the closely- 
cropped ground, 

At a locust's solo shrill; 



So, with steps, growing slow and unsteady, 

With a flushed and fevered cheek, 
To the homestead of white, in the bright, blinding 
light, 

Staggered he repose to seek: 

As he lay on the lounge, quite unconscious, 

In a slumber strangely deep, 
With his~ curls damped with sweat, and his lips 
stained and wet, 

Crept his mother, there, to weep; 

Not a word of complaint did she utter, 

As she looked upon her boy; 
But, her eyes became dim, as she gazed upon him 

Who was, once, her pride and joy; 

Wiping off the great beads from his forehead, 

Pulling off, with gentle hand, 
Shoes and stockings, so soiled in the field where 
he'd toiled, 

By his side I saw her stand ; 



baby, 



Then, she fondled him like to 

And made easy ev'ry limb — 
This old woman, so gray, (full three score, if a 
day,) 

Who loved none so well as him; 

Then, down-bending her head, bald and hoary, 

On his feet a kiss she pressed, 
With her soul in her eyes, when, to my deep sur- 
prise, 

She to me these words addressed; — 

"Yes, my son is a pitiful drunkard, 

Yet, I love him, spite his sin; 
Next to Christ I adore him we're standing before, 

Tho' he, never, Heaven may win!" 

The boy's body, now, rests in the kirkyard, 

Where the daisies dream and nod, 
But, if mother prayers save, then, his soul from the 
grave 

Must have soared to dwell with God! 



What, my Friends, can be truer or tend'rer 
Than such love in mother breasts, — 

The affection no act of a child can contract, 
But, which stands all searching tests? 

Yea, when love's such as, sometimes, I've seen it, 
(Like the love of which I write, — ) 



57 



Love, forgiving of all, tho' its idol may fall, 
It is sweet in Jesus's sight! 

FAIRYLAND 

When first I rose, this morning, 
And chamber curtains furled, 
Methought I woke in Wonderland, 
So changed was our old world : 

The garden, lawn and meadow, 

The sidewalk and the street 
Were tucked 'neath ermine coverlets 

For gnomes or naiads meet: 

House tops and tall church steeples 

Were tiled with pearly slate; 
O'er all was spread a counterpane 

Smooth, soft, immaculate: 

Electric- wires were cables; 

Fence-posts like men appeared 
With ulster-collars turned up high 

O'er hoary hair and beard: 

The trees, last night, so naked, 

Bore leafage wondrous fair; 
The birds were, still, in slumber-land; 

No sound broke stillness rare: 

From chimneys, cased in crystal, 

Rose smoke in wreathing coils, 
And brownies lit their pussy pipes 

And rested from their toils: 

But, now, the mystic quiet 

Was spoiled by shovelers' spades; 

Her cloak was stripped from Mother Earth 
By snow-ploughs' fiery blades: 

Her fleecy, spotless mantle 

By hurrying hoofs was beat; 
Her virgin robe was stamped and stained 

By prints of human feet: 

Alas! my world, so pure and white, 

Had lost her glamour rare; 
The mysticism, which round her lay, 

Had vanished into air! 

ODE TO THE PEMIGEWASSET 

I've two beloved friends, fair and faithful, 
But, many long years it may be 

Ere I list to the voice 

Of the first of my choice, 
Or, the face of the other see! 



And, there, in the North Land they waiteth; — 
They waiteth and watcheth for me; 

One a-singing so sweet, 

As, with silvery feet, 
He, fast, gambols along in glee: 

The other I love just as dearly, 

Tho' speechless is he and most grave; 
For, he listens to hear 
When my steps shall draw near 
That a welcome he me may wave: 

I spent, years ago, a vacation 

Beside these dear comrades of mine, — 

The blue mountain of pride, — 

The clear stream at his side, 
Kissed, at evening, by thirsty kine: 

Each morning, the mountain, (who'd guarded 
My dreams thro' the past, darksome night,) 
Threw off mantle of gloom, 
Waving banner of brume, 
With a smile on his visage bright: 

The stream, which a lullaby chanted 
From dusk till the dawn of the day, 

Whispered, now, low and sweet, 

Words I tried to repeat, 
But, I failed; why I well can't say: 

Dear Mountain, I see thee, at sunset, 
When a violet cope covers thee! — 
When the shades of night fall, 
And a hodden-gray pall 
Rises round thee from o'er the lea! 



O Stream of the Pemigewasset, 
In autumn, a torrent so wild, 

But, whose gay prattle light, 

Ev'ry midsummer night, 
Sounds like cradle-songs sung to a child, 

Dance along round thy aged companion, 
And sing him thy ditty most sweet 

Till his nightcap of white 

He puts on for the night, 
And draws o'er him his snowflake sheet! 

Then, sheathe, shining Stream, sword of silver, 
And don thine ice armor, so strong, 
And, at La Fayette's feet, 
May thy slumber be sweet 
Thro' the cold, winter months, so long! 



58 



But, when the first trill of the bluebird 
Is heard upon weald or on wold, 

Doff thine armor of night! 

Draw thy sword, silver bright, 
And, away, thro' the strath, Knight bold, 

A-trolling thy lays and a-dancing 
Along thy rough, rocky highway, 

Laughing loudly in glee, 

And a-waiting for me, 
My bewitching Franconia Fay! 

FREEDOM 

Give me a home, tho' but a cot, 

Where the brooklet weds the lake, 
Upon the mountain's sturdy side, 

Where, in spring, the windflowers wake, 
With ne'er a friend but her I love, — 

My devoted Mother true, 
Whose hair's like snow, and eyes the tint 

Of earth's canopy of blue! 

And let me roam upon the hills 

From the morn till dewy eve, 
No carking care to gnaw my heart, 

And no sorrow soul to grieve, 
A song of gladness on my lip, 

As I climb the rugged height, 
My faithful spaniel at my heels 

Like a page of errant knight! 

A bed, at night, upon a heap 

Of the purple heather fair; 
My casements open wide to catch 

Ev'ry whiff of bracing air; 
And, then, away, where laugh the rills, 

At the rosy dawn of day, 
Perusing old Dame Nature's book, 

Where the squirrels are at play! 

I ask not wealth, — just means enough 

To supply each daily need, 
And health, (that best of heaven-sent gifts,) 

With clear sight, for which I plead; 
And, then, I know, when life is done, 

Mother Earth a bed will grant, 
And spread me o'er a mossy pall, 

Whilst the birds will a death-song chant: 

So, give to them who wish the gold, 

And a life in cities spent, 
Where hearts grow hard and health grows poor, 

And strong figures, bowed and bent! 
But, give to me a lifetime lived 



On the rock-ribbed mountain side! 
Oh, let me on his quartz-veined breast, 
Till I die, in peace abide! 



SONG OF THE EGLANTINE 

Let him, who will, admire 
The Jacqueminot of fire! — 

The rosebud white! 
Give me the eglantine 
Which grows where browse the kine!- 
Whose cheeks are pink as thine, 

Aurora bright! 

Amid rough pastures bare, 
There, lives my bonny Fair, 

On thorny stem! — 
Thro' perfect days of June, 
And nights of silver moon, 
Beguiled by rills' soft rune, 

My priceless gem! 

Oh, soon, may thee I meet, 
Thou witching wild-rose sweet, 

With blushing face! 
Amongst thy leaves' dark green, 
My modest, rural Queen, 
O'er rocky walls you lean 

In charming grace! 

Then, when thy petals close, 
My soft, sweet-brier rose, 

Or drop to earth, 
When thy pure life is done, 
When thy short race is run, 
Breathe low a prayer to One 

Who gave thee birth! 

He placed thee where thou art, 
Thou undefiled, young heart; 

And, Blossom wild, 
Unseen by mortal eye, 
Know, well, thy Maker's nigh! 
He sees thee from on High! 

Thou art His child! 

Then, happy be, tho' none, 
Beside the breeze and sun, 

You visits pay! 
Yon pasture bars behind, 
Of calm, contented mind 
May you Our Father find, 

Each dawning day! 



59 



CRAZY MARY 

(Dedicated to the late Mary , who became 

sane on the death of her intended.) 

Over the rugged roadway, 

Facing the wintry blast, 
Braving the heat of summer, 

Back in the years long past, 

Plodded poor crazy Mary, 

Seeking her lover true, 
Grief turning dark hair hoary, 

Dimming her eye's bright hue; — 

Wondering why her sweetheart 

Kept not his loving tryst, 
While o'er her brain bedarkened, 

Daily, crept deepening mist: 

Next, to her home returning, 
Teardrops them sprinkling o'er, 

Fingered she ev'ry garment 
Fashioned her hands, of yore; 

Looking them sadly over, 

Laying, with care, each by, 
Keeping them for the bridal 

Deemed she must, soon, be nigh: 

Then, the next morn saw Mary 

Wending her weary way, 
Thoughts on intended husband 

Safe in the Realms of Day: 



Now on the Hills of Glory, 
Close to the Crystal Flood, 

Mary, restored, clasps lover 
Healed in his Saviour's blood: 

Once, God thought best to part them; 

Now, in His Love Supreme, 
There, in the Courts of Zion, 

There, live they out Love's Dream! 



MARY'S LITTLE LAMB 



Drove the sheep from cattle-cars, 
He discovered one lay dying 
On the floor, behind the bars; 

And, beside her, a wee lambkin, 

(Only just a few days old,) 
Moaned for milk, — for sweet caresses, 

And for shelter from the cold; 

Now the drover, thinking lambkin 
Without mother's milk would die, 

In his brawny arms it lifted, 
And, to billows rushing by 

Was about to cast the creature 
When he felt a movement light; 

At his elbow stood a stranger, 
Pity softening visage bright; 

"And it please thee," said the stranger, 
"I will take the lamb, to-night, 

To my darling, little daughter 

Who'll be filled with deep delight!" 

With a smile, the stalwart shepherd 
Laid the lambkin on his breast, 

And, that night, the tiny creature 
Went to be young Mary's guest: 

Fed, by hand, with milk, the lambkin, 

Under Mary's loving care, 
Grew to be as fair a creature 

As you'd meet with, anywhere; 

Not a fleece was seen more silky, 

From which eyes, so brown and bright, 

Looked with love upon its mistress, 
At whose side, from morn till night, 

Full of life, it trod the meadows, 
Browsing tender leaf-buds rare, 

Or, in playful race, outran her, 
In those spring-like days, so fair: 

Daisy loved sweet biscuits, dearly, 
And she knew the cupboard where 

Dearest, little Mistress Mary 
Kept the dainty, passing rare; 



From the hills and mountains rugged, 
Which the blue Pacific line, 

Came a train of sheep and cattle 
Down the wharf, one morning fine; 



So, when hungry, to the closet 
She would trot with nimble feet, 

Paw the door, and, then, with vigor, 
"Bah! bah! bah!" she'd thrice repeat: 



As the herdsman, with his collie, 



60 



But, alas! too soon, an ending 



^_ 



Came to Mary's happiness, 
And the pet, she'd loved so fondly, 
Lapsed to deep forgetfulness ; 

Leaving, soon, the flowery country 

For the busy, bustling town, 
There was, here, no place for Daisy, 

Used to rove o'er pastures brown; 

So, in tears, unhappy Mary 

Gave her pet to a playmate dear, 

And, before again she saw her, 
There had passed a fitful year; 

But, at last, she paid a visit 

To her playmate, and, behold! 
Daisy's wool, now, swept the flooring 

Of the dirty sheepfold old ; 

She, no longer, was a lambkin 

With a coat clean, soft and white, 

But, a ewe, with wool in tangles, 
Blinking, there, in noonday's light; 

And, to Mary's salutation 

No loved, "Bah!" fell on her ear; 
She no longer, knew the lassie 
. To whose heart she'd been so dear : 

Years have passed since she was given 

To the butcher's bloody knife, 
But, her mistress, (now, a woman,) 

Often, dreams of early life 

When she romped o'er heath and heather, 

In the gloaming's tender light, 
With the lamb her heels a-tagging 

Till the shadows brought the night. 

MERITED PRAISE 

(An incident of my Aunt's wedding) 

The vows were said; the prayer was prayed, 

And ev'ry smiling guest, 
In festive costume fair arrayed, 

The new-wed pair addressed: 

Each wished them joy and earthly wealth; 

The parson, peace untold; 
And all the bride wished perfect health 

Above the shining gold: 

Then, when the marriage feast was o'er, 

In groups of two or three, 
The guests the time remaining wore 

In conversation free: 



61 



A-flitting round with words to say 

To each, (assembled, there,) 
I saw the lamplight, laughing, play 

On Father's silver hair: 

How affable my handsome sire! 

How dignified, withal! 
How gleamed his bright, brown eye of fire! 

How straight he seemed! how tall! 

'Twas then the rector, earnest, grave, 
Sought out my Mother's side; 

He took a seat, (she, gracious, gave,) 
Upon the sofa wide, 

And said he'd come of one to speak 
Whom Mother loved right well, 

When crimson grew her modest cheek 
At what he had to tell; 

My Father's beauty, (rarely found 

In one of fifty years,) 
He praised, besides his sense, so sound; 

His heart which knew no fears; 

The kindly pastor, slowly, then, 

These parting words did say, 
"A King your husband is 'mong men!" 

Then, bowed and walked away: 

Dear Friends, what comfort 'tis to us, — 

My Mother dear and me, 
To know that others prized him, thus! — 

His sterling traits did see ! 

And, since he crossed the Billowed Bar, 

I gaze at pictured face, 
And wonder in that Land Afar 

If Father's grown in grace! 

I know that on his silver hair 

A Victor's Crown doth rest, 
And, on that face, (so wondrous fair,) 

The smile which God hath blessed! 



PIQUE-BOIS-JAUNE 

Fresh was the breath of morning, 

After the starry night; 
Clear was the springtime sunshine 

Shedding its amber light 
Over the budding chestnuts, 

Over the hills of green ; 
But, clearer the notes of a joyous bird 

That sang in yon oak, unseen! 



"Wick! wick-up! wick-up! wick-up!" 

Gayly the bird did call, 
Up in his leafy covert, 

Up in his greenwood hall ; 
While, on my spade a-leaning, 

Long, did I listen, there, 
But, never a sight of his bonnet bright 

Had I, that morning fair! 

Often, since that mild morning, 

Thro' the old oak I've gazed, 
Where rang the song so thrilling 

Which so my soul amazed ; 
But, saw I, ne'er, the singer; — 

Never, of him caught sight, 
Tho', dozens of times, trolled he out the call, 

From dawn till the fall of night! 

Later, I missed the music 

Up in the oak, so green ; 
Long, did I listen, sadly, 

Wond'ring what it could mean; 
Had the musician left us, 

Never, to, here, return? 
Had I proved a neighbor to him unkind, 

Unsocial or hard or stern? 

So, passed the gladsome springtime, 

Full of its bird-songs sweet; 
So, passed the early summer 

Ever with flowers replete; 
Listing the thrush and hang-bird, 

Singing at dusk and dawn, 
I, now, hardly missed from the chorus, there, 

The lay I had heard, that morn ! 

But, as I sat, one evening, 

Dreaming beneath the trees, 
Trying to learn the language 

Sung by the cooling breeze, 
Up. to a pine, before me, 

Flew, in the sunset light, 
The rollicking bird of the happy spring, 

Decked out in his bonnet bright! 

Never a note he uttered, 

Whilst there he stood, alone; 
But, on me gazed, intently, — 

Gallant Sir Pique-Bois-Jaune! 
Just as if he had heard me 

Wish that I him could see, 
And, now, that his nesting-cares, all, were o'er, 

He'd show himself, there, to me! 



Always, shall I remember 

How in my face looked he, 
There, in the summer gloaming, 

Out from the tall pine-tree; 
Dark gleamed his natty neckcloth, 

High, o'er his spotted breast ; 
And proud was the look which he cast at me, 

Ere, off, to his tree-trunk nest 

Winged he his way on pinions 

Bright, underneath, as he 
Who to the west was wending, 

Slowly, his way, so free, 
Bringing the night refreshing, 

Restful to him and me; 
And, long, of the Flicker thought I, that night, 

I'd longed, all the spring, to see! 

USE THE EYES WHICH GOD HATH 
GIVEN! 

Ye Men of Wealth, whose gold can buy 

The things for which ye pine, 
I'll wager thee yon sunset sky 

Is mine far more than thine! 

The kingcups, in the meadow low, 

The aster, by the rill, 
For thee as me as brightly blow 

Thine heart with joy to fill! 

But, while I bide beside the brook 

To list its mystic rune, 
Upon the price of stocks you look, 

Forgetful of its tune! 

I smile to see the foam which flecks 

The waves that wash the strand; 
You cringe to view the surge which wrecks 

Your ships that steer to land ! 

I joy, at dawn of day, to hear 

The phoebe's cheery note; 
You'd give a dozen ducats, clear, 

Would he but rest his throat, 

Because for thee speeds night away 

In thought ; but, at the dawn, 
You'd fall asleep till broad noon-day 

In gairishness be born! 

You see in buttercups no gold; — 

No silver on the sea! 
Thy gold yon heavy coffers hold 

To bring you misery! 



62 



- 



As long as lucre, Man, you love 

With all your mind and might; 
And, never, see the blue above, — 

The red of sunset light; 

As long as, Man, your eyes you close 

To earthly beauties bright, 
So long your life will be but prose, — 

The kind we dullards write! 

And, ne'er, you'll know what bliss were thine, 

If you'd but looked to see 
The silver in the flashing brine, — 

The gold in bloom and bee! 

HAUNTED HEARTS 

The parsonage was haunted 

By the spirit of the dead; 
'Twas not uncertain hearsay, 

But, the village verdict dread; 
Throughout the roomy mansion 

Uncanny sights and sounds 
Were seen and heard, each evening, 

When the spectre went his rounds: 

No man in all that country 

Would have entered, here, at night, 
For fear he'd meet the parson 

In his winding sheet of white; 
But, four long months I tarried 

In that dwelling's ancient walls, 
And, ne'er, met sprite or goblin 

In its spacious rooms or halls: 

In the barn I, often, lingered, 

Where, they said, once, heavy, hung 
A cold and rigid body 

With its stiff, protruding tongue; 
But, on the evening breezes 

There was borne no groan or cry; 
No spectral face before me 

Swung from dusty rafters high: 

The whinny of the stallions, 

(Standing haltered in the stalls,) 
Their hoof-beats on the flooring 

Loud re-echoed from the walls; 
The cricket's chirp, so cheery, 

Quite enlivened dusky gloom, 
Assuring me this stable 

Was no place of direful doom: 

'Tis hearts, not homes, Beloved, 

Which are haunted, (oh, 'tis true!) 
By spectres of the buried, 



63 



Whom, when living, well they knew! 
Whom, while they trod Life's Roadway, 

E'en, as neighbors, side by side, 
They helped not up the hill-path 

Or across the torrent wide! 

'Tis all the little favors 

Which we do, as on we go, 
That make of ev'ry fellow 

A stanch friend and not a foe; 
'Tis all the acts of kindness, 

Which we'll wish, some time, we'd done, 
When o'er are all our trials, 

And the Heavenly Shores are won ! 

And, then, our hearts, (free fully 

From all shadows of remorse,) 
In darkened room, no groaning, 

E'er, will hear and see no corse; 
And bright will be the pictures, 

Which we see at dusk or dawn, 
The pictures of our Lost Ones 

Fair and lovely as the morn! 

DEAR AUNT CAROLINE 

Lone in her cot, 'neath the beech and the oak, 
Where thoughts of the past in her soul often woke, 
Long years ago, my old Aunt Caroline 
Lived many a month thro' the sweet summers fine: 

Neat was her cottage as eyes ever saw, 

With queer patchwork quilts and each bare, painted 

floor ; 
None could excel her hot biscuits, so light, 
Rolled out on that pastry-board scoured snowy- 
white : 

Nowhere could butter more golden be seen 

Than made by her hands, (brown and wrinkled, I 

ween ; ) 
Nobody's welcome was heartier, e'er, 
Than that 'neath the roof of this dame of white 

hair: 

Climbing a ladder to the top of the mow, 

She pulled deftly down fragrant hay for her cow; 

Sitting alone with her knitting, she spun 

Fair castles in Spain till the set of the sun: 

Then, Auntie spied a slight form, lithe and free; — 
Two bare, sun-burned feet standing near to her 

knee ; — 
Two merry eyes into hers gazing down ; — 
Two arms, (round her neck,) as those feet just as 

brown : 



After her young, best-loved grandchild had gone 
Away, 'cross the fields, to her home, till next morn, 
Happily, then, my dear, kindly, old Aunt 
To bed went with fears of no spectre to haunt: 

Rising from dreams with the sun and the birds, 
(Awaiting her pet, as she pressed creamy curds,) 
Auntie, soon, saw, ('long the path, bare and worn, 
Which wound among junipers green,) the young 
fawn 

Coming, again, to bid happy good-day 

To dear, crippled grandma, near the end of life's 

way; 
Leaving her, soon, to her work and the thought 
Of those gone Before, whom each hour nearer 

brought : 

Now, to Aunt Caroline's cot should you go, 

Your heart would be filled with regret and with 

woe, 
For, from the door, where she smiled welcomes 

kind, 
She passed like a puff from the low-breathing wind : 

Happily, now, I believe, she must stand 
In yon, far-away, but, beloved Spirit Land, 
Patiently, doing the tasks, (yet, her part,) 
With joy on her brow, and with peace in her heart! 



The day full of peace and contentment; 

The night undisturbed by a sound 
Save tinklings of bells in the sheepfold 

Or steps of the old hunter-hound : 

No hurry or bustle or worry, 

But, plenty of time to adore 
The Maker of th' universe wondrous, — 

O'er all of its beauties to pore; — 

To sit on the porch, towards the sunset; — 

To bask in the glorious light ; — 
To watch the fair, sky panorama 

As breezes the clouds put to flight; — 

Or, yet, when the hills lie in shadow, 
And stars faintly glow in the sky, 

To raise deepest thoughts to the Altar 
Of Him in the firmament high: 

Perchance, you, my Readers, may, also, 

Delight in this kind of retreat; 
Perhaps, you may, too, see the traces 

Of messenger angels' light feet 

In brooklet or bright, purple heather, — 
In the depths of some clear, mountain lake, 

In shadows that play on the moorland, — 
In storms which wild torrents awake: 



HER IDEA OF HAPPINESS 

She craved neither gold, nor, yet, jewels; 

A mansion and lackeys she'd spurn ; 
Society had no attraction 

For her whose heart deeply did yearn 

For a cot on the slope of the mountain, 
Red ramblers abloom 'bout the door, 

The sun, glinting soft thro' the casements, 
Reflected on each painted floor; 

While, fresh from the dew-laden clover 
Come odors refreshing and sweet, 

As bees fill their bags full of pollen, 
And hay-makers rest from the heat: 

The pictures she sees are of nature, — 

Shy sheep far away on the hills; 
Wise shepherd dogs watching their movements 

Or driving them home o'er the rills: 

The music she hears, — the lark's carol 
Or low of the meek, gentle kine, — 

Winds chanting thro' solemn cathedrals 
Of oak, maple, hemlock or pine: 



64 



For, there, in the fair fanes of Nature, 

In chapels of chestnut or fir, 
Dwells God who is, ev'ry day, worshipped 

By birds whose sweet songs our souls stir ! 

BENEDICITE 

Friend, (whom, once, I thought to be 
Type of all the world holds best,) 
When the sunbeams sink to rest, 
Then, I think of thee, 
Murm'ring, "Benedicite!" 

When to God I bend the knee, 
Ere to sleep I fall, at night, 
Or, at break of morning light, 

Then, I pray for thee, 

Mutt' ring, "Benedicite!" 

Wonder I if, o'er the sea, 
Thou a weary wand'rer art; 
Or, in some huge city's heart 
Should I think of thee, 
Whisp'ring, "Benedicite!" 

Then, these questions come to me, — 






• 



Wear her lips the smile they wore 
In those happy days of yore, 

When fast friends were we, 

Saying, "Benedicite?" 

Can her heart as blithesome be 

As in those departed days? 

Hath she, still, those witching ways ? — 

Wondrous ways to me, 

Praying, "Benedicite!" 

Doth she, ever, think of me 

Ere the morning toil's begun? — 
When the daily tasks are done, 
Wishing me to see, 
Sighing, "Benedicite?" 

Grant, dear Lord, ere passes she 
To that Better Land Afar, 
Ere she cross the Seething Bar, 
I her lips may see 
Murm'ring, "Friend, oh, bless thou me!" 



SONG OF THE WATCH 



Oh, take me from the casket, where I so long have 

lain; 
Attach to me a ribbon in lieu of silver chain ; 
Oil up my works, so rusty, and find the old-time key 
To set my wheels a-whirring, and, then, I'll sing to And, then, I hear the answer; 'tis, "Captain Blunt, 



I feel the air, so biting, of that cold Christmas night, 
E'en now, my vitals piercing, as Grandpa gripped 

me tight ; 
I see the breeze a-blowing his wig, so long and gray ; 
I see the ice-blocked river, as gloomy closed the day: 

And, now, I see the Chieftain, great Gen'ral Wash- 
ington, 

Surrounded- by his Staff bearing flag and pike and 
gun; 

I note him take his place in a row-boat, small and 
frail; 

His worried look I notice, as fiercely blows the gale: 

He glanceth at the waters a-dashing madly by; 
He glanceth at the snowflakes a-sifting from the sky ; 
He glanceth at the ice-floes, which whirl adown the 

stream, 
Then, falleth in a study, — a short, but, troubled 

dream: 

Soon, raising chin from collar of cape that muffles 
him, 

I see his gray eyes glimmer 'neath hat's three-corner- 
ed brim, 

And hear his voice commanding when asking if 
there's one 

Who knows the rushing river, down which the ice- 
blocks run: 



thee! 



who's here, 
Knows well the driving current, and of it hath no 

fear!" 
Then, his reply I notice, which, ne'er, shall I forget, 
"Please, take the helm, O Captain!" and, thus it 

was there met 



My tarnished case of silver was, once, of brightest 

hue, 
When lay I in the pocket of waistcoat, deepest blue, 
Of him, — thy great, great Grandpa, (in seventeen 

seventy-six, ) 
Who looked at me, so proudly, and listened to my The Leader of the Army and your dear Grandpa, 

tick: there, 

The eve of Trenton's Battle, upon the Delaware: 
Of course, you know your Grandpa must know the The Captain grasped the rudder, and, slowly, care- 
time exact, fully. 
When out of Little Harbor his vessels slowly The boat moved thro' the blackness, across the surg- 

tacked ; 
How long, to one short second, his merchantmen 

were gone, 
When they returned, well-laden, with barley, wheat 

or corn: 



Old Captain Blunt, so sturdy, was short and stout 
and bald; 

He did the right, and nothing his spirits, e'er, ap- 
palled ; 

I feel his heart fast beating, to-day, against my face ; 

I feel his hand caressing my sterling silver case: 



ing sea: 

I heard the tramp of warriors who in their boats 
embark; 

I saw, across the river, flash camp-fires in the dark ; — 

The camp-fires of the Hessians, for, on this Christ- 
mas night, 

They kept a royal revel, nor dreamed of foe or fight : 

At last, we landed, softly, upon the Trenton side ; 
In silence, marched our soldiers as smould'ring camp 
fires died; 



65 



'Twas four o'clock, and, sleeping, the hated Hessians 

lay 
Before the dying embers, two hours ere break of day : 

Before the foemen knew it, were they our sleepy 

prize, 
Wrapped, head and ears, in blankets of good, nay, 

ample size, 
While our poor, half-starved soldiers were blue with 

frost and cold, 
For, scanty was the clothing above their bosoms 

bold: 

All this I saw, in person, on that eventful night, 
From pocket of the waistcoat of broadcloth, blue 

and bright, 
Of Captain Blunt, your Grandpa, who 'cross the 

Delaware 
Rowed Washington, thro' danger, to victory most 



MINERS OF CORNWALL 

Digging and drudging and delving 

In the mines of cold Cornwall, so bleak ; 

Picking and boring and blasting 

For six long, weary days of the week; 

Listening and wond'ring and shudd'ring 
At the roar of old ocean, o'erhead ; 

Dreaming, yet, sweating and slaving 

For their wives' and their little ones' bread; 

Fearing and trembling, yet, trusting 

In the pitiless, rough, savage sea ; 
Hoping, imploring and praying 

That their loved ones afloat safe may be ; 

Kneeling, entreating and weeping 

At the sound of the surf's thund'ring crash; 
Weary, yet, watching and waiting 

For the breakers to coasts cease to lash: 

Such is the life of the miners 

Seeking copper in far-off Land's End, — 
Sturdy of frame, strong of courage, 

With great hearts which to romance do tend ; 

Offsprings of hardy, brave Britons 
Of the days of King Arthur of old, 

Who, with his paladins loyal, 

Put to rout the fierce, Saxon hosts bold: 



Hearing the voice of the tempest, 

Which quite freezes their hot, Celtic blood, 

Thoughts of Sir Tristan will strengthen 
Their arms brawny and hearts true as steel ; 

E'er, will Excalibur mighty 

Them defend with its strokes, sharp and leal ! 

Merlin will weave weird enchantments 
For their watchful and keen, wary eyes, 

Never, to close till the lantern 

In the mine's gloomy vault slowly dies! 



A VALENTINE 

One autumn day, when all the trees had shed 
Their countless leaves, which scattered lay and dead, 
I plucked from out my modest, little garth 
Two rose-buds red, that blushed beside the path, 

For two dear Friends who came from miles away 
To warm my heart, that cheerless, autumn day: 
One bud, still, lives, altho' three months have fled 
Since it I snatched from out the leaflets dead ; — 

Still, lives, a symbol, bright and wondrous fair, 
Of all th' affection I its owner bear; — 
A love which, now, hath lasted many a year, 
But, yet, endures, sweet, sturdy and sincere, 

As when, for sixteen years, close, side by side, 
We toiled together, comrades bona fide, 
With ne'er a word to mar the friendship sprung 
From out an incident, when we were young! 

But, now, tho' hoar-frost sparkles in our hair, 
And Time hath furrowed foreheads, once, so fair, 
The Friendship, nourished in our breasts, so long, 
This wintry day, is bursting into song! 

God grant, when twenty-seven years more pass by, 
Intact, within our bosoms twain may lie 
This Love as spotless as the Alpine snows, 
As fresh and fair as, "Sharon's dewy Rose!" 



In verse, above, dear Isabel, 
You've found a valentine! 

Oh, may it please thy fancy, well, — 
This tale of, "Auld lang Syne!" 



Long as they peer thro' the caverns, 

Lying deep 'neath the sea's foaming flood, 



66 



The above lines are dedicated to my Friend, Mrs. 
Bradbury P. Doe. 



IN THE SPRINGTIME SWAMP 

Deep in the swamp, that skirts the lake, 

Dearly, I love to stray, 
Soft, 'neath my feet, the curled-up brake 

Coaxed by the sun's warm ray: 

Close by the birch, — (fair, forest bride,) 

Smiling, the pine doth tower, 
Seeming his sweetheart's head to hide, 

Fearful lest showers may lower: 

Floating on boggy waters brown, 

Brightly the cowslips shine, 
Looking like gold in a priceless crown 

Gemmed with the dewdrops fine: 

Scores of anemones, by the rill, 
(Modest, young nuns, at prayer,) 

Open their leaves at the wind's sweet will, 
Trembling to feel him, there: 

Sometimes, the maple, overhead, 

Drops his bright blossoms fair 
Down on the windflower he would wed, 

Letting her know he's there; 

But, not one word the tree doth dare, 

Ever,, aloud to speak, 
Dreading those monks who always wear 

Hoods o'er their faces meek; 

Never, they move from where they kneel, 

(Beads counting o'er and o'er,) 
E'en, when night's shadows o'er them steal, 

Bidding them pray no more; 

Yet, in the early hour of prime, 

When thro' the woods doth ring 
Merry tree-sparrows' tinkling chime, 

Aves they, then, do sing: 

Little Skunk-cabbage Priests, in brown, 
(Deemed by the tree, austere,) 
Ne'er need he dread your harmless frown, 
Wishing you weren't right here! 

Clad in your mottled cowl and cope, 

Never, you cease to pray! 
Here, on the moss-grown ground, I hope 

Ye I shall find, alway! 

LEGEND OF THE PASSION PLANT 

As I bend a listening ear 

O'er my lovely Passion Plant, 



67 



This is what I seem to hear 

In low notes of peaceful chant ; 

"I was born the day the Lord 
On the cruel Cross met death, 

And, in terror, high I soared 
Fain to catch His dying breath: 

"As I gazed on dreadful pain 
Marked upon His marble brow, 

Cordate leaves were cleft in twain; 
Thus, you three-lobed see them, now: 

"As, by tendrils, climbed I high 
Ton the Cross, its image gray 

Was reflected in mine eye; 
There you find it to this day: 

"And, as I caressed His side, 

(From which purple drops flowed fast,) 
Ev'ry petal white was dyed 

With their color, long to last: 

"When I saw the Thorny Crown 
Piercing Christ's pale forehead fair, 

Lo ! my stamens, straight and brown, 
At that instant, (passing rare,) 

"To a golden halo bright 

All were changed, and, since that time, 
When I ope to dawning's light, 

There, you see the Crown Sublime: 

"Not in sorrow, shame or fear, 

Low, I hang my heavy head, 
But, in joy, I Christ was near, 

On that gloomy morning dread: 

"As I saw the Face Divine 

For but just a second's space, 
So, glance, quickly, upon mine! 

Long, may you not see my face! 

"For, my purple petals open, 

Only once, and, then, at morn, — 

Ope, in sweet and loving token, 
Calv'ry's Cross did I adorn!" 



BUNNY 

Right after ev'ry snowstorm, 

In hilly Sharon, here, 
While yet the snow lay sparkling 
Beneath the pine-trees darkling, 

I've watched my Mother peer 



From out her curtained casement 

To see if she could find 
The track of any rabbit, 
('Twas but a harmless habit,) 

Upon the snow outlined; 

And, oft, was she rewarded 
By spying, here and there, 

The pretty footprints, plainly; 

But, her, who made them, vainly, 
She looked for, ev'rywhere: 

Yet, still, she searched, a-trusting 

A rabbit should she see 
Upon the crust a-leaping, 
While loud the blast blew, sweeping 

Thro' pine and cedar-tree: 

But, now, the summer's with us ; — 

The blade instead of snow ; 
While bees are making honey, 
My Mother seeks for Bunny 
Upon the slope, below: 

Beside the window, yonder, 

She lounged, last Monday night, 
A-resting from her duties, 
Admiring Nature's beauties 
Spread out before her sight; 

And, I, who sat beside her, 
Heard, soon, a smothered cry, 

As Mother seized my shoulder, 

When, I, becoming bolder, 
Leaped up her rocker by: 

Upon the gravelled pathway 

There crouched, a foot away, 
Who could it be but Bunny, 
With pointed ears, so funny, 
And fur of brownish gray? 

She'd come, at last, (God bless her!) 

My Mother's heart to cheer! 
And, then, as died the gloaming, 
For forage went she roaming 
Thro' leafy coverts, near! 

Dear Bunny, come, I pray thee, 

To visit us, again ! 
We'll serve thee corn and cabbage 
That you may, never, ravage 

The garden-plots of men! 

And, when creeps on the autumn, 
And huntsmen stalk thy way, 



Oh, in thy burrow hide thee, 
And, there, in safety, bide thee 
Till fades the light of day! 

For, since my Mother's found thee, 

Her tender heart would bleed 
If she should find thee wounded, 
(Where, once, you gaily bounded,) 
Upon the meadow-mead! 

And we shall seek, at nightfall, 
To see thee in this place ! — 
To watch thine ears a-listening, — 
Thy deep, dark eyes a-glistening, 
A-lighting up thy face! 

MAY 

Thy tardy footsteps hasten, 
Oh, merry month of May! 

Us mortals do not chasten 
By any long delay! 

We love you for two reasons; 

And we will tell you why 
Of all the charming seasons 

We value you so high! — 

Because the springtime flowers, 

In dale and dreamy dell, 
(Bedewed by April showers,) 

You make to blossom well! 

And, too, because you send us 
The feathered songsters fleet 

Who far more pleasure lend us, 
Perhaps, than posies sweet! 

We'll cull, in joy, the flowers 

In field and forest set! 
We'll search all secret bowers 

For the birdfoot violet! 

Bright birds will, then, be winging 
Their way to you and me; 

There'll, ev'ry day, be ringing 
Sweet love-songs from the tree : 

We'll see the redwings feeding 
On new-sown fields in flocks, 

And we'll not be unheeding 

Of that quaint bed which rocks, 

In yonder orchard blooming, 

Upon a mossy limb, 
The apple-blooms perfuming 

The air for us and him, — 



68 



(His wedding waistcoat wearing 
Of black and orange bright,) 

Who, to the cradle faring, 

Flits, (morning, noon and night,) 

An insect her (in yellow 

And green,) to place before; 

Ah! He's a gallant fellow, — 
This wee Lord Baltimore! 

So, bring, with weather warmer, 
Dear May, bright bloom and bird ! 

Let's see, right soon, the former! 
The latter let be heard ! 

And, when you come in gladness, 
All Nature'll laugh in glee! 

There'll be no room for sadness! 
We all shall happy be! 



At the brook that's bright 'neath the noonday sky, 
Tho' in twilight's haze he pales; — 

Who grows a monster, at rise of rain, 

And leaps on with rush and roar, — 
A huge lion fierce, with a wind-tossed mane, 

All devouring him before: 

And, whilst the streamlet fares on in scorn, 

Looking not to left or right, 
The old apple-tree on the blooms forlorn 

Sweetly smiles from morn till night : 

Oh, silly blossoms, why is 't that you 

Are so blind as not to see 
When a comrade's false, and when one is true, 

Like the gnarled, old apple-tree? 



WHY A SAILOR BEN BECAME 



I KNOW A BANK 

I know a bank that, each fall, is blue 

With the aster's azure eye, — 
Where the grass is heavy with gleaming dew, 

As I pass, each morn, it by; 

The asters lean towards the meadow brook, 
Which stalks on, with pride most sure, 

Thro' its oozy banks, casting ne'er a look 
At the asters, sweet and pure : 

A friend most true have the asters fair, 

Who stands high upon a ridge, 
Stretching out his arms, as he waiteth, there, 

'Bove the brooklet's rustic bridge; 

This loyal friend is an apple-tree, 

All misshapen by birth and years, 
But, he loves the flowers blooming near his knee, 

That, at dawn, are bathed in tears; 

At noon, when sunshine streams strong and hot, 

He spreads out a screen of green, 
Scatt'ring down his sweet, juicy fruit to dot 

The low bank where th asters lean ; 

Yet, ne'er a glance do the flowerets cast 

At their faithful friend, so bent, 
Who would shield them all from the autumn blast, 

Which, for years, his form hath rent: 

But, th' asters look, with a longing eye, 
From the dawn till daylight fails, 



Long ago, in days departed, 

Rumor knew a youth true-hearted, 
The young son and heir of one of wealth and pride; 

And his father loved him well, 

Tho', the strange, sad truth to tell, 
He loved money more than him his hearth beside ! 

Now, it chanced the laddie, Ben, 

Met, one day, a damsel, when 
To that lass went out the love of his great soul; 

So, when he'd his suit declared, 

And found she his feelings shared, 
To his sire went he to tell his purpose whole: 

When the hard, old man, alas! 

Heard what things had come to pass, 
He refused to sanction marriage with the maid, 

And, in threats and argument 

The whole evening long was spent; 
But, they neither one bold Ben's intention stayed: 

So, at last, the wily man 

Hit upon a little plan, 
Which, next morn, he to his stubborn son made 
known ; 

Lusty lad should go to sea; 

And, on his return, if he, 
Still, the lady loved, his sire'd the act condone: 

After bidding her farewell, — 

(Her, who made Ben's heart to swell,) 

The lithe laddie to the ship repaired, elate; 
And long weeks and months passed by, 
But, with Hope, (Love's Anchor,) nigh, 

Thro' the time with calm contentment Ben did wait: 



69 



In a European town, 

For the girl with braids of brown 
Purchased Ben a watch of dainty workmanship, 

And a gown of silken sheen 

For the maid, tho' poor, a queen 
In the eyes of him of dark and downy lip: 

After many months, at last, 

At the wharf the brig made fast; 
And, young Ben, attired in sailor costume blue, 

Toward the manor house made way, 

With a bosom light and gay, 
To the lass he loved, still, faithful, stanch and true: 

Greeting, first, his aged sire, 

Ben, with fervor, did inquire 
For the lass he left behind him, when he sailed ; 

When, his father, calmly, said 

That the lassie'd, long, been dead, — 
That she, after his departure, slowly failed: 



But, with buzzing brain, and feet 

He could guide not, this retreat 
Of profanity and vice he left, at last; 

And the captain of the ship 

Ben, anon, saw near the slip, 
Begging leave to serve as seaman at the mast: 

On Ben's brow, (late, beaming bright,) 

Now, sat ghosts of gloomy night; 
In his bosom lay the image of the maid 

He had planned to make his wife, 

And whose smile, throughout his life, 
From a self-destruction dire the laddie stayed: 

Hard and horny grew the hands 

Of the heir of gold and lands; 
Bowed and bent with pain and toil became the form 

Of the man, who, when a boy, 

For all time, lost life's best joy 
In the person of a lass with heart most warm: 



Then, Ben's merry eye of blue 

Changed to one of blackest hue, 
And his downy, laughing lip grew set and white; 

Pallid grew his cheek of tan, 

And, a boy, no more, but, man, 
In appearance and at heart, grew he, that night: 

On the embers, (burning bright 

In the grate with brass bedight,) 
Threw he watch and silken stuff, so white and fair; 

When to ashes they had burned, 

To his sire the sailor turned, 
Cursing him, in tones of fury and despair: 

Catching up his cap of blue, 

Rushed he out, 'mid falling dew, 
To the streets deserted, pacing them, all night; 

But, when morning mists of gray 

Ushered in the gloomy day, 
Far from home, they found him, weak and wan and 
white: 

In the village churchyard green, 

By the sexton, he was seen 
A long, last farewell a-taking from his own, 

Who, beneath the turf asleep, 

Must have felt his sorrow deep, 
As he wept as only men to weep are known : 

When the shining sun arose 

On the world and on his woes, 
To a dram-shop slowly sauntered weary Ben, 

In the sparkling wine so red 

Trying, hard, to ease his head 
And forget the saddest, then, was he of men: 



As dragged, painfully, the years, 

On Ben's wrinkled face no tears 
By his messmates' searching eyes were ever seen, 

Save, when, (ev'ry voyage o'er,) 

Each glad sailor went ashore 
On a wife's or sweetheart's bosom true to lean: 

It was then, most sad, that Ben 

To some dreadful, drinking den 
Made his way to drown the demon in his breast; 

Then, each hard-earned penny gone, 

To the vessel, pale and wan, 
He would stagger back to slumber and to rest: 

Yet, all those, who shipped with him, 

Saw his faded eye grow dim 
And a sad, sweet smile play round his mouth weed- 
dyed, 

As, with woman's tenderness, 

All those sick or in distress 
He to succor stood their swaying bunks beside: 

Many years have fled away 

Since old Ben, (bald, bent and gray,) 

On his final voyage sailed, at gloaming's glow, — 
A short voyage, at whose end, 
(We all hope,) he met the friend, — 

The lost lassie of the days of long ago ! 

THE GREAT STONE FACE 

There hangs high on a wall of my bedroom 
A fine portrait which fills me with awe, 

As, on features gigantic, majestic, 

And expression, so sphinx-like, I pore: 



70 



It conveys me, in thought, to the mountains 

Which in lovely Franconia rise, 
With their sides clothed in verdure eternal, 

Oh, so green 'neath the blue of the skies! — 

To a spot in the heart of this region 
Which I saw, years ago, the first time, 

On a morn when the herbage was gleaming 
With the rays of the sun on the rime: 

As I stepped from the coach, that had brought me 
From famed Bethlehem's Village so neat, 

I was told to look up at the visage 

Which the eyes of all tourists doth greet; 

I obeyed, and, as, promptly, my eyelids 
Were upturned to this sight, long desired, 

There thrilled fast thro' my frame quick pulsations, 
And with wonder my soul was inspired ; 

Right before me, arose, in lone grandeur, 

A tall Titan, with forest-clad breast, 
Whose grim face, with thin mists round it floating, 

Did not deign to e'en glance at his guest, 

But, continued to gaze forward, onward, 

As it has many thousands of years, 
The horizon afar, always, scanning, — 

This huge profile which, ever, appears 

To be, constantly, watching and waiting; — 
But, for what man has, never, been told ; 

Yet, his vigil, so lonely and tireless, 
He has kept for long centuries old: 

Him, no Joubt, the brave redskins did visit 
To implore full success to their arms, 

On the eve of excursions of bloodshed, 

When this image they worshipped with charms: 

There, enthroned 'mongst the clouds, he's paid hom- 
age 

By admirers, who, all, him request 
To divulge hidden secrets of bosom, 

But, no heed doth he pay the behest : 

Oh, inscrutable Countenance stony, 

What strange prophecies thou could'st proclaim, 
If thy lips, tightly sealed, could but open, 

When, in prayer, pigmies call on thy name! 

Ah! indeed! thy stern face, so relentless, 

Shall, forever, entreaties despise, 
But, shall guard the fair valley, so peaceful, 

Until new generations arise! — 



Till the face of the lake called, "Thy Wash-bowl," 
(Which lies cuddled so close to thy feet,) 

Shall be curled by the oars of great galleys 
Of gaunt giants, — thy progeny sweet! 

So, till then, round thee birds shall skim gayly, 

Fleecy cloudlets entwining thy neck, 
Whilst thine eye shall pierce, still, the thin vapor, 

As festoons of rare vines thy form deck! 



Travellers, all, who the "Old Man of Mountain, 
Ev'ry summer, by millions, do throng, 

May the sight of his mist-shrouded figure 
Fill your souls with thanksgiving and song! 

If ye see him by sunlight or shadow, 
Under skies of deep sapphire, so clear, 

Or, when vale by a fog is pervaded, 

When his face from a cloud-wreath doth peer, 

May this Sentinel, patient and faithful, 
To your hearts make a fervent appeal ! 

May he lift ye to thoughts more ennobling ! 
May he make ye exalted to feel ! 

HYMN 

I love to steal away, alone, 

When sick are heart and brain, 
To One to whom each need is known, — 

Who lists no prayer in vain : 

And, tho' the answer to my plea 

May come in stranger guise, 
I must not discontented be, 

Nor mourn His judgment wise! 

For, surely, in the after years, 

In nearer, clearer view, 
The change, (I, now, bewail in tears,) 

I'll see with vision new! 

So, in the gloaming, calm and fair, 

I pray for strength and peace, — 
The strength which bears with cumb'ring care, 

And peace that, ne'er, shall cease! 

MORNINGS IN NEWMARKET, LONG 
AGO 

Full sixty steps from yon highroad, 

Stood, long ago, a dwelling, — 
(A broad, old-fashioned, quaint abode 

Of which I you am telling,) 



71 



With clean, box-bordered path before 
The hospitable-looking door: 

Three strong, stone steps, (wide, low and neat,) 

The bordered pathway ending, 
Gave access to the village street 

Between rock walls a-trending 
Around the lawn of emerald dye, — 
A pretty sight to passers-by: 

Here, Auntie Treadwell dwelt for years, 

Good Sarah with her biding; 
Her other children, it appears, 

In other towns residing, 
Among them, one, the youngest boy, 
Her heart's delight and bosom's joy; 

But, each vacation, home he came, — 

This son and loving brother, 
And, on one trip, two parrots tame 

He brought his aged mother ; 
And chatty were these fondlings green, 
The gayest pair that, e'er, was seen : 

Hard by the girdling, granite wall 

There stood a cedar tap'ring, 
And, in its branches, thick and tall, 

In summer weather, cap'ring, 
The parrots climbed till smooth and stark 
Were bole and branch, devoid of bark; 

And on the steps, of which I speak, 

A child was, often, sitting 
A-watching them, with claw and beak, 

Up, thro' the tree a-flitting 
And scolding to each other, there, 
Upon the branches scratched and bare: 

Now, sev'ral times a week, there passed, 

En route to far-off Brighton, 
Whole herds of cattle, hurrying fast, 

Enough most birds to frighten ; 
But, in the clouds of dust they raised 
The parrots perched, all unamazed; 

And, oft, the driver, in the rear, 

A-plodding on, so weary, 
Was much surprised to plainly hear, 

"Hi! there!" in accents cheery, 
And, stopping short, he'd turn around 
And scan the sky, the house, the ground; 

But, seeing no one save the maid, 
Who on the steps did hover, 



He hurried on nor longer stayed 

The speaker to discover, 
Tho' on his lip a look of scorn 
Was born, that charming, summer morn: 

And, when the dew adorned the grass, 

Those pleasant mornings, early, 
A flock of sheep was wont to pass, 

Urged on by shepherds surly, 
Who swore to hear but not to see 
Those mocking parrots in the tree : 

Those summer mornings, fresh and fair, 

Still, dawn with radiant splendor; 
But, that old homestead, now, is bare 

Of both its inmates tender, — 
Aunt Treadwell and her daughter good 
Who've joined the spirit sisterhood; 

And, he, the son, (who used to play 

Upon his flute, so sweetly,) 
He, too, hath wandered far away; 

All, all are gone completely 
Save her, — the graceful, little girl 
With chestnut hair in many a curl, 

Who sat upon the steps to see 

The flocks and herds pass slowly; 
Who, sometimes, smiled, in girlish glee, 

To see the herdsmen lowly 
So angry at the ringing call 
From out the cedar, green and tall; 

Upon her knee the patchwork square, 

She tried her mirth to smother; 
And, here, to-day, upon her chair 

She sits, — my gentle Mother, 
With sewing of another kind 
To occupy her active mind ; 

But, still, she loves to tell, to-day, 

As darns she some old stocking, 
The story of her girlhood gay 

And of those parrots mocking, 
Who, 'mongst the cedar branches green, 
Called out to passers-by, unseen! 

I KNOW A PLEASANT, SUNNY, PINE- 
GROVE BORDER 

I know a pleasant, sunny, pine-grove border 

With just a scrap of sky, o'erhead; 
And, near at hand, a chestnut-wood, as warder, 

Keeps vigil o'er a flower-bed: 






No bed is this with straight and even edges, 



72 



Well-weeded, smooth, from pebbles free, 
Like those in "Merry England," near which hedges, 
In spring, are bright with bloom and bee: 

This flower-bed by man hath, ne'er, been weeded; 

Tis strewn with leaflets dry and sere; 
By human hands it's never, e'en, been seeded, 

And, yet, from out the soil doth rear 

As pure and beautiful a blossom tiny 

As ever mortal eye did see; 
And, there, in early May, its petals shiny 

Unfolds for me in joy and glee: 

The pine's brown needles closely press around her 
Lest careless feet on her should tread ; 

And, brushing back last summer's leaves, I found 
her 
Down-drooping low her modest head : 

Her eyes, (as blue as summer skies, at morning,) 
With drops of dazzling dew were wet, 

A dress, (which matched her eyes,) adorning 
This beauteous Birdfoot Violet: 

With none but birds and squirrels within hearing, 
She blooms her best, each May-time day, 

Her winsome ways and purest breath endearing 
Herself to all who pass that way: 

But, few there are who go this way, so wooded, 
So, few have found the bloom's abode ; 

And, thus it is this sunny spot, sky hooded, 
I see with her blue blossoms strewed: 

Far, far beyond the restless, rolling ocean, 
Dwells one, once, Queen of England old ; 

And, she, (I've, always, had a deep-set notion,) 
Is like this flower with heart of gold : 

Consoling words, Queen Mother, I can't offer, 
For, words, sometimes, sound hard and cold! 

But, these bright blooms, (your prototype,) I prof- 
fer: 
Forgive me, if I seem too bold ! 

Oh, hold them, for one moment, in your fingers! 

Their faint, sweet perfume, once, inhale, 
If any in their graceful petals lingers, 

When taken from their paper jail! 

And, then, when you have cast them off, forever, 
Of this, dear Queen, oh, mindful be ! — 

The sender loves you well, and doth endeavor, 
Thro' them, to show her sympathy! 



(The above lines were sent to the Sweet Queen 
Mother Alexandra, after King Edward's Death.) 

SAVED FROM THE SEA 

A ship the sea was skimming like a bird ; 

No welcome zephyrs stirred 

The azure ocean bright; 
The torrid sun wide-flung his amber light, 
And, overhead, sailed sea-gulls, snowy white, 

Loud uttering a cry, — 
A warning note, it seemed, sent down from realms 
on high: 

Twelve miles from Acapulco she had made, 

And, 'neath an awning's shade, 

Each tourist bared his head, 
And wished 'twere time the sun, so hot and red, 
Had sunk to slumber in his sapphire bed; 

When, suddenly, a sound 
Woke ev'ry man and maid from revery profound : 

"Fire! fire!' the knell re-echoed loud and clear; 
And all grew white with fear; 
Some swooned ; some knelt in prayer ; 
From some, shrill screams of terror rent the air; 
The hose was dragged, in haste, 'cross deck-floor 
bare, 
As, from the wheel-house side, 
"Quick! wet the powder, there!" the frightened 
Captain cried: 

Some benzine, in the hold, was all ablaze; 

And, on their crooked ways, 

The fiery streamlets went 
Amongst the merchandise, so densely pent, 
Until the smoke, not finding other vent, 

Up yawning hatchway rose, 
Enfolding in its coils all lookers-on, — its foes: 

Amid the stifling smoke a sailor bold 

Was lowered in the hold; 

A hose within his hand, 
He flung the crystal flood, while each deck-hand 
Worked hard the pumps, at thought of far-off land 

He, nevermore, might see, — 
Of wife who watched, in tears, with baby at her 
knee: 

The Mate, — a Scotchman, red of hair and beard, 

(Whom ev'ry seaman feared,) 

On deck stood calm and still, 
In patience, waiting, like a statue, till 
The fire was out, — the hold began to fill, 

When, "Stop! enough!" was word 
The tourists terrified, and sailors, likewise, heard: 



73 



The frenzied deck-hands heeded not the mate, 

Who did not hesitate, 

But, pulled from breeches white 
A pistol, as he called to those in sight, 
"Cease, now, unless you love this firearm's light!" 

He stopped a second more, 
But, still, the foaming flood in billows bright did 
pour: 

A blinding flash ! the bullet sped, and, lo ! 

The deck-hands, down below, 

(Half-dazed with fear and smoke,) 
Now, found their master's word was not a joke, 
For, lodged in hose was ball ; the Mate's fell stroke 

The pumpers' brains had missed; 
God help them! they'd no strength to any more re- 
sist! 

The benzine barrel, then, was hoisted high; 

And cheers rent cloudless sky, 

As, on the taffrail strong 
It lay one second ; then, was whirled along 
The frothing wake which sang its soothing song 

To Captain, crew and Mate, 
Who felt his startling act had been, almost, too late: 

When passed the sturdy ship the Golden Gate, 

'Twas not in regal state; 

She fired no sweet salute, 
For, wet were magazines; so, meek and mute, 
She steamed along her happy, homeward route, 

Content she lived to near 
Her own, her native land, to her, now, doubly dear: 

This story is a true, not, fairy tale; 

And, never, will you fail, 

(Should, Friends, you visit me,) 
One passenger of that old ship to see, — 
Your humble servant, who, (then, aged three,) 

Was saved from shipwreck dire 
By One the seamen nerved to quench that fearful 
fire! 

THE WITCH OF VESUVIUS 

A short walk from the rim of the crater 

Of Vesuvius, rugged and bold, 
Dwells a Witch than whom none is deemed greater 

In the prophecies true she's foretold: 

All alone, liveth she on the mountain, 

No live being about her abode 
Save some inmate of fissure or fountain, — 

The sly fox, viper vile, warty toad: 

'Neath her eye, lovely Naples lies sleeping 



By its beautiful harbor of blue; 
Silver streams, far below, flow a-leaping 
Down the valleys of emerald hue : 

If the day's clear and bright, she goes roaming, 
After rootlets and herbs, down the steep; 

When the sun sets in state, at the gloaming, 
To her cavern she hies her to sleep: 

The fierce fires in the crater a-seething 

Is the music she loveth to hear; 
From her mattress of moss, her hard breathing 

Shows of them the old witch hath no fear: 

In a cauldron she steeps, long but slowly, 

The strong herbs, (she hath simpled, in pride,) 

Which she sells to the love-lorn lads lowly 
Who in her and her potions confide : 

For the luckless, the love-sick, the weary 
She these philters, alone, doth prepare 

In her den, dirty, darksome and dreary, 
Whence her eye seems to fitfully glare: 

Perchance, crooning her weird incantations 
O'er the draughts she, with skill, doth distill, 

The new moon spies her strange preparations, 
As she peeks at her over the hill: 

Oft, the tourist her palm with gold crosses 
That his future the hag shall foretell; 

And, in truth, 'mongst the lichens and mosses, 
Old Andromache prophesies well: 

This old woman, (with lean, claw-like fingers,) 
Brown and wrinkled, and motley arrayed, 

At the time of an earthquake, long lingers, 
By the sulphurous smoke undismayed ; 

But, the moment has been, (impelled, truly, 
By her instinct, so wondrous and clear,) 

When she hurried, in haste, not unduly, 
From the home which to her is so dear; 

Yet, as soon as the mountain ceased rumbling, 
Pouring out o'er its breast lava hot, 

The old crone, with her gestures and mumbling, 
Glad, returned to her bare, rocky cot: 

It so happened a serpent, she'd petted, 

In one quake, by a stone was struck dead, 

As, thro' smoke, steam and gases most fetid, 
Down the path of the mountain she fled: 



Grayer grow her lank locks, and more horrid 
The hag's features become, as years fly, 



74 



'Neath the winds, dews and damps, and suns torrid 
Of fair Italy's radiant sky: 

None, on earth, know the reason, deep-hidden, 
Why she loves, here, to live, all alone ; 

But, one day, she from here shall be bidden, 
When her life's secret strange shall be known ! 

ODE TO THE WINDS 

Blow, gently, Western Breezes, blow 

From off the Central Plain, 
And tell me all I fain would know 

About those fields of grain, — 
Those boundless fields, so bright and gay, 

O'er which, at will, ye sweep! — 
Upon whose breast the gadflies play 

And lively locusts leap! 

Thou Northern Wind, with shrilly blast, 

From realms of frost, oh, haste! 
I know the icy floes you've passed ! — 

Each white and blinding waste 
Where Borealis glistens bright 

The Eskimo to cheer 
And light him thro' that endless night, — 

The winter solstice drear! 

Bleak Eastern Blast, so keen and bold, 
. Thy famous sandals gird, 
(Like winged Mercury, of old,) 

And, like an ocean bird, 
Skim o'er the heaving, sobbing sea, 

At sultry day's decline, 
And, fresh and sweet, oh, bring to me 

The odor of the brine ! 

Breathe, softly, Southern zephyrs, breathe, 

(From flowery llanos fair,) 
Of signoritas shy who wreathe 

Gay garlands for their hair! — 
Of herdsmen, in sombreros wide, 

The long lasso who fling, 
As o'er the grassy plains they ride 

And of their sweethearts sing! 

Ye Brothers bright, (brisk, bold or bland,) 

Ye Spirits, fierce or fair, 
The wondrous sights of ev'ry land 

To me, I pray you, bear, 
That I, in rhymes, (maybe, uncouth,) 

At twilight hour, may tell 
My Friends, — the aged and the youth, 

All you remember, well! 



Ye Winds 



I but wealth enow, 



A traveller I would be ! 
I'd turn the vessel's pennate prow 

O'er ev'ry shining sea! 
But, Fate decrees that I shall stay 

To write my rhymes, at home ; 
So, since ye come from far away, 

Where happy idlers roam, 

Oh, whisper in my listening ear, 

(When darkness woos the day,) 
And I will write the tales I hear, — 

All, all, dear Winds, ye say ! 
For, all ye lisp I understand; 

Yes, not a word, Winds free, 
That ye shall speak of any land 

Shall, e'er, be lost on me ! 

LOOK AND LEARN ! 

Clear are the stars in the welkin wide, 
Standing so still at fair Dian's side ; 

Nought they despond, 

Tho' no eye fond 
Looks, in delight, to where they abide: 
Oh, froward hearts, that crave to be seen, 
Look and learn from the stars round Night's Queen I 

Fair are the flowers on the mountain bare, 
Drinking the dew and the fresh, pure air, 

Nothing aghast 

Tho' storms them blast, 
Or travellers bold from the rocks them tear: 
Oh, moping men, who curse and complain, 
Look and learn from these blooms' silent pain ! 

Gay are the birds in the forest dim, 
Singing sweet songs as they grasp the limb; 

Ne'er, they regret 

That no ear, yet, 
Hath heard, in wonder, their greenwood hymn : 
Oh, selfish souls, which long to be heard, 
Look and learn from the meek, forest bird ! 

DEATH OF SPARTACUS 

On, march the serried legions Roman! 

Bright shine their brazen shields ! 
"Onward, to death!" thinks ev'ry bowman, 

Whilst he his weapon wields : — 

On, thro' Calabrian pines, sweet-smelling, 

On, towards the sounding sea 
Which shall a requiem, soon, be knelling 

Over the bond and free! 

First, file the youth, in life's fair flower; 



75 



Next, those in manhood's prime; 
Lastly, the vet'rans upward tower, 
Marked by old Father Time: 

Whom is't to meet these men are going, 
(Young, middle-aged and old,) 

Past grassy fields, where kine are lowing, 
Over the highway bold? 

Him, once, a happy, Thracian shepherd, 

Up on the mountain side, 
Wearing the skin of a spotted leopard 

Flung o'er his shoulders wide; — 

Over the hills his way a-wending, 

Wading the babbling brook, 
Guarding his flock from wolves offending 

With but a staff or crook; — 

Him, one day, seized by captors truckling, 
Torn from his highland home, — 

Torn from his tiny lambkins suckling, — 
Made a sad slave of Rome ; — 

Him, whose soft heart was ever beating 

But for his charges white, 
Listening to ev'ry feeble bleating, 

Rome had, since, taught to fight! — 

Trained as a gladiator fearless, 
Men and beasts, both, to slay, 

This is the man these legions peerless 
Fear in their hearts, today! 

Soon, to the sound of bugles blaring, 

Meet they upon the plain, 
Disciplined legions, armor wearing, 

Shooting their darts like rain; 

Outcasts and slaves, — the other army, 

(Only half drilled for fight,) 
There, in Calabrian breezes balmy 

Wooing the wildflowers bright: 

With such a mob of men invested, 
(Armed in what way they can,) 

Spartacus, stately, tall, broad-breasted, 
Stands in the bristling van! 

Stouter and stauncher seems his shoulder; 

Bloodsthirsty, now, the look 
Worn on the face of him grown bolder 

Since bore he brand for crook! 

Buckler of leather bears he lightly, 
Shielding his body strong, 



76 



Sword of sharp steel a-gleaming brightly, 
As, bounding swift along, 

Deals he smart blows among his foemen, 

Stretching them on the plain, 
Till round about lie heaps of bowmen 

Spartacus, sole, hath slain! 

Closer they press around the giant ; 

Nearer, and still more near, 
Wearing their cuirasses, so pliant, 

Over their hearts of fear, 

Till, in a moment most unlucky, 

Struck, from the rear, in the leg, 
He, (the rough, rebel chieftain plucky,) 

Sinks on his knees; to beg? 

Not for the world ! But, death-strokes dealing, 

There, on the ground so bare, 
Spartacus fights while trumpets, pealing, 

Rends the soft, summer air! 

Now, one wound more is slowly bleeding; — 

One in his bosom brave, 
Yet, fights he on, these cuts unheeding, 

He, but a wretched slave! 

After a time, o'erpowered by numbers, 

Spartacus drops his glaive; 
There, on a pile of dead he slumbers, — 

There, where Rome's eagles wave! 

Stains of a bright and vivid scarlet, 

(Hue only kings may wear,) 
Cover the corse of the sleeping varlet 

E'en to his fingers bare! 

Tear them from him? Can they? Ah, never! 

Nobly he wears them, too! 
Slave, now, no more, but, free, forever, 

Under day's dome of blue! 



DEAR PURPLE ASTERS RARE 

When sunshine soft streams down 

From clear, September skies, 
And paints the meadows, (turning brown,) 

With tints of azure dyes, 
To terraced banks and braes I turn, 
(Beyond the dusty town,) 
Or, by the burn, 
O'ergrown with fern, 
When sunshine so*t streams down: 



Some clear, September noon, 

(Like monk in hodden-gray,) 
To list the sleepy rill's sweet rune 

I love, alone, to stray; 
And Nature's Book to read I dare, 
(My missal,) to its tune, 
Whose letters fair 
Are asters rare, 
Each clear, September noon: 

These bright, September days, 

(More rare than days of June,) 
I tread these unfrequented ways 

With God to be in tune; 
And cull the asters, blue and white, 
While scream the jabb'ring jays; 
Oh, what a sight 
For wand'ring wight, 
These bright, September days! 

'Pon tops of stemlets tall 

They peer in my old face, 
And seem to say, "Now, comes the fall! 

Soon, run shall be our race! 
Oh, pluck us for the sad and lone ! 
Oh, deck the mansion hall, 
Ere, with a moan, 
We sink from throne 
'Pon tops of stemlets tall!" 

Dear purple asters rare, 

Your royal robe ye spread, 
When, not for you, would be quite bare 

The meadow brooklet's bed ! 
So, bide with us, ye blossoms bold, 
(The hue of welkin fair,) 
Till days of cold 
Do all enfold, 
Dear Purple Asters rare! 



SONG OF THE WOOING FROGS 

When come the clement nights of spring, 

And Luna bright is beaming, 
I hear the wooing bull-frogs sing, 

(With which the swamps are teeming,) 
And fall asleep while yet their song 
Is borne the balmy breeze along: 

The warm, spring weather stirs to life 

These fellows, soundly sleeping, 
And bids each one to seek a wife 

Among the mass a-peeping 
Amid the mud, the pond below, 
Where dreamed they all while swirled the snow: 



I love to list these courting frogs, — 

These golden-coated gallants 
A-tilting on the floating logs 

And keeping, well, their balance, 
While thro' my open casements, clear, 
Is borne their notes upon mine ear: 

Their voices all are pitched to blend 

So pleasantly together 
Would I their wooing, ne'er, would end, 

But, last thro' ev'ry weather, 
As well as she who knows the note 
Emitted from her lover's throat : 

Their leaping feats we, all, have seen; — 
Their eyeballs, bright and gleaming; — 

Their jackets tight of brown and green, 
Without a stitch of seaming ; 

But, few, I fear, their song hath heard 

As clear as that of many a bird: 

The rain harms not the dappled coat, 
But, makes it shine more brightly; 

They seem on muggy showers to dote, — 
These portly suitors sprightly, 

As, patiently, they wait their prey, 

A-squatting on the wat'ry way: 

How dive they in the pool, so dark, 
If think they danger's nearing, 

With widening circles left to mark 
The place of disappearing! — 

These nimble-legged, agile frogs 

Who sing of love from floating logs! 

Yes, dear's the song the bull-frogs sing, 
When comes the springtime weather! 

And, far and wide, their accents ring, 
Some singly, some together, 

To tell their sweethearts loved to wake 

And meet them on the moonlit lake: 

'Tis said, to him, who haps to hark 

The first frog chorus ringing 
From out the boggy waters dark, 

Good luck its way is winging; 
And, so, when comes the early spring, 
For frogs I list, when, first, they sing! 



THE BROWN THRASHER 

Late, on a June-time afternoon, 

Strolled I o'er meadow lea, 
Listing the red-winged blackbird's tune,- 

Sweet, liquid, "Con-quer-ee !" 



77 



Gathering daisies, fair and white, 
(All that my hands could hold,) 

Then, as the slanting sunbeams bright 
Gilded the western wold, 

Down the wood-road, at lazy pace, 

Crept Bobby Burns and I, 
Watching the flies, with wings of lace, 

Fluttering fleetly by; 

Skirting the road, the rare cornel 
Gleamed in the fading light; 

Sprays of viburnum earthward fell, 
Heavy with blooms of white: 

All seemed so still in the sombre light, 

Gazed I the woods around 
Fearing to see the Ouphe of Might 

Owning this fairy ground; 

Suddenly, dog and I stood still; 

Here was the Goblin come! 
How Bobby's heart and mine did thrill, 

Tongues of both growing dumb! 

Sharp was the sound which seemed to say, 
(Whilst we both spellbound stood,) 

"Scoundrels, begone! aroint! away! 
Out of my own loved wood !" 

Then, with a whizzing, whirring sound, 
Swift, from a pine-tree's crown, 

Looking in majesty around, 
Lightly, a bird flew down; 

There, on a bending branchlet bare, 

Full seconds six, stood he, 
Asking us why that we did dare 

In his domains to be ; 

Nought could we answer, I or Bob, 
Handsome, brown thrasher, there, 

Thinking we'd come his nest to rob, 
Rob of his nestlings fair; 

Never a note this troubadour 

Sang to us poachers bold ; 
Only a scolding did he pour 

Out o'er the dusky wold : 

Often, we've wandered, since that day, 

Rusty-red bird to see, 
Hoping to hear his dashing lay 

Sung from the tall pine-tree: 



78 



We would not harm thee, — not for gold, 

Bird of the amber eyes, 
So, to thy breast thy babes enfold, 

Safe, 'neath the sunset skies! 

And, merry thrush, oh, grant to me, 

Ere to the south you fly, 
Just one more moment's glimpse of thee, 

Up in yon pine-tree high! 



LAMENT OF THE RIVER RHINE 

'Mong the peaks of the Alps, clothed, at sunset, 
In the hues fit to please the proud peer, 

Where the eidleweiss blooms, 

And Gotthard lonely looms, 
Is the home that to me is so dear! 

When the snows on the peaks melt but slightly,- 
Can no longer the sunrays withstand, 

Then, the mighty mass creeps, 

And the chamois fast leaps 
O'er the breast of the glacier grand: 

And, now, spring flings her flowery sceptre 
Over high Alpine gorges, so green, 

While bright brooks wind their way 

Over rocks, gaunt and gray, 
Gayly dancing bare boulders between: 

Erelong, too, there are seen, flowing swiftly, 
Two small streams, (each a silvery thread,) 

O'er rough pebbles and stones 

Singing lays, in low tones, 
As they enter Lake Constance to wed: 

Then, emerging from baptism and bridal, 
In deep sorrow, again, they divide, 

Each one wending his way 

Towards old ocean, so gray, 
There, forever, in grief, to abide: 

Know that I, humble I, am one streamlet 
Which is known by the name of the Rhine; 

And, before I hide head 

In old ocean's broad bed, 
I've resolved to do something quite fine; 

And, so, sometimes, I spread thro' a country 
Where fair vineyards are seen, far and wide; 

Then, a forest of pine, 

On my right, doth combine 
To set off the soft sheen of my tide: 

Ofttimes, too, on a sudden, I narrow 



MM 






MM 



And leap on thro' ravines, like a flash, 

In a cataract wild, 

Like a querulous child, 
My soft spray 'gainst their walls high to dash: 

Then, again, all so peaceful, I wander 
Where quaint hamlets and villages lie, — 
At the feet of steep hills, 
Down which course gleaming rills, 
With gray, ivy-clad castles, near by: 

Soon, my surface is strewn with isles verdant, 
And my waters abound with fine fish ; 

Pretty, pleasure boats skim 

O'er my glimmering brim, 
And to stop, here, fore'er, is my wish: 

But, I, now, thro' great towns must go strolling, — 
Thro' old Coblentz and famous Cologne; 

And I gaze, when I dare, 

On the church that's so fair 
That o'er all the wide world it is known : 



Ye blithesome bells, I love thee, well, 
Whene'er thy music sweet doth swell ! 
Oh, may thine accents, pure and clear, 
Be sounds which, last, on earth, I hear! 

In turrets tall, ye, still, shall swing, 
When future bards thy praises sing; 
But, none will love as deep as she 
Who penned, dear bells, these lines to thee! 

Now, merry bells, thy measures sweet 
Fling o'er the land on pinions fleet! 
Ring out the song which sorrow quells! 
Ring, far and wide, blest bells, blest bells ! 

And, as ye sway, in belfries high, 

Up, towards the bright and smiling sky, 

Oh, let thy lips, this morning, say, 

"Kind Friends, be glad! 'tis New Year's Day!" 



POWER OF MIND OVER BODY 



Ah! my end, drawing near, makes me shudder; 
And, as crawl I thro' Holland, so low, 

Icy mountains I crave ; 

Oh, once more, might I lave 
Those huge crags o'er whose sides lichens grow! 

Woe is me! I've my home left, forever! — 
The bright, happy, loved land of my birth! 

I shall, ne'er, with waves light, 

Wish a gladsome goodnight 
To the spot to me fairest on earth ! 

YE BRAZEN BELLS 

Ye brazen bells, ye brazen bells, 
What mystic magic in thee dwells! 
Thou'st power to cheer me with thy note, 
Or choke with sobs my throbbing throat! 

Whene'er I hear thy vesper chime, 
My soul is filled with thoughts sublime; 
In yonder kirk I kneel in prayer, 
Clear anthems thrilling all the air: 

Lo ! when a bridal peal rings out, 
I list the words of priest devout; — 
The circlet see on bride's white hand, 
There, placed by lover, proud and grand : 

But, whilst I heed the tardy toll, 
That numbers years of some, poor soul, 
I wonder if his spirit free, 
Thou doleful bell, doth hark to thee! 



Like the breezes softly sighing 
Thro' a field of bearded wheat, 

So, God's Angels come to cheer me 
With their messages, so sweet; — 

Messages of love and comfort, 
Messages of strength divine 

Bearing me on wings of eagles, 
Filling me with holy wine ; — 

Teaching me that all God's children 
By His Love were perfect made, 

And that, ne'er, in retribution, 

Was dire sickness on them laid; — 

But, that He to prayer will listen, 
And if we, with contrite soul, 

Ask His aid, with faith believing, 
He will, straightway, make us whole: 

Now, the body is, they tell us, 
In great measure, like the mind; 

If the soul is pure and sinless, 

Then, its house we fair shall find: 

Didst thou, never, notice, Sweetheart, 
How that fear will pale the face? 

How that bashfulness in blushes 
Paints the cheek with rarest grace? 

Have you, never, read, "The Craven!" 
Branded on the coward's brow? 



79 



Have you, neither, marked, "The Hero!" 
On some bronzed cheek, ere now? 

Or, perchance, you've seen, "The Glutton!' 
Stamped distinctly on some face; 

Or, may be, the one word, "Selfish!" 
On some forehead framed in lace: 

If it be that human faces 

Mirror thoughts of hate and sin, 

If that care can carve deep wrinkles, 
If that eyes show vice within, 

It is very plain, (I know it,) 

That unselfish feelings sweet, 
Surely'll keep this transient temple 

Healthy, strong and fair to meet! 

LULLABY 

The sun has sunk behind the hills, 

As fades the evening sky; 
A million gleaming, gurgling rills, 

(Which leaped from mountains high,) 
Have ceased their laughing lays, so loud, 

And, in old ocean blue, 
Reflecting ev'ry opal cloud, 
They chant a hymn for you, Sweetheart, 

They chant a hymn for you ! 

They ask the Lord you safe to keep 

From dangers of the night; — 
Your tired lids to close in sleep; 

But, at the dawn's gray light, 
They pray that you may, rested, wake, 

And, on your bended knee, 
That to your God your heart you take, 
And ask Him His to be, Sweetheart, 

And ask Him His to be! 

"So, close your eyes in perfect peace!" 

The wavelets sing, off-shore; 
"God's tender care will, never, cease; 

But, now, and evermore, 
In clasp, as loving and as strong 

As ocean's tireless tide, 
Will bear you on Life's Way along 
Till you in Heaven abide, Sweetheart, 

Till you in Heaven abide!" 

LISTEN TO THE FAIRIES! 



Surely, some morning, you can see, 

Beating his little drum, 
Yonder, a yellow bumble-bee 

Big as one half your thumb! 

Round the tall foxgloves, red and white, 

Flies he to creep, at last, 
Deep in some cup, clear out of sight, 

Still, beating drumsticks, fast: 

Then, where the purple iris droops, 

Down in the oozy swamp, 
There, you may see, 'mong insect troops, 

Dragon-flies sail in pomp; 

Brightly their burnished backs will gleam, 
Barred with dark brown and green, 

And, where the gnats the thickets teem, 
Scores of them may be seen, 

Whirling their gauzy wings so fast 

Scarcely their rapid flight 
One can discern, tho', like a blast, 

Whiz they throughout the night: 

Yet, there's another fairy bold, 

Living in yonder bog; 
Gay gleams his jacket trimmed with gold, 

When, on a floating log, 

Plays he his flute, so loud and clear, 

Diff'ring in tone, they say, 
Wholly from that of others, near, 

Who in the frog-pond play: 

When comes the night, you'll hear that elf, 

Dressed all in black, so plain, 
Thinking of others, ne'er, of self, 

Out in the dark and rain ; 

Whom do I mean but the cricket, Child, 

Sounding her violin, 
Always, so modest, meek and mild, 

Guilty of ne'er a sin! 

Certainly, ev'ry one you meet, 

Often, doth list, at night, 
Breezes their solos sweet repeat 

Played on quaint leaf-harps light: 



List to the fairies' music, Dear, 
Listen, these days of June, 

List and their orchestra you'll hear, 
Always, in perfect tune! 



80 



All of you, Children, must have heard 
Notes of the stream's guitar, 

Sweet as the song of a pretty bird 
Heard in the woods afar: 



These are some few of the fairy folk, 
If you but hark, you'll hear! 

This is the truth and not a joke 
I'm you a-telling, Dear! 

So, use your ears and both your eyes, 
These charming days of June, 

And elfin music, I surmise, 
You will enjoy, right soon! 



KING ALFRED AND THE PEASANT 



And, thus she rated the stranger, there, 

Unaware her king was he ; 
And England's King did her scolding bear, 
As, musing, there, in the firelight fair, 

He made plans of peace to be, 

When, brave and bold, from old Devonshire 

Rose his subjects the foe to quell, 
And, once again, Britain's bowmen dear, 
At home, slept, happy, without a fear 
Of the Danes in dale and dell! 



'Twas winter weather in England old 

When King Alfred had to flee, 
(Without a foll'wer,) one evening cold, 
Before the hosts of Dane Guthrum bold, 

Thro' the woods of Athelney: 

No cuckoo cheered Alfred's aching heart, 
But, beneath the oak-trees, swine, 

Before his steps, with a grunt, did start, 

As, in the track of a keeper's cart, 
Hurried he to see a sign 

Of some poor place he might hide his head 

To escape the ruthless foe; 
And, soon, he spied the bright firelight red 
That on towards a swineherd's hut him led, 

In the evening afterglow: 

Beneath the roof of this humble cot 
The good king found rest and food ; 
And, here, one day, 'twas the monarch's lot 
To watch some loaves on the hearthstone hot, 
Whilst he fashioned arrows rude: 

Disguised in clothes such as peasants wear, 
The kind swineherd knew him not; 

And, so it was the man's dame did dare 

To order him for the bread to care, 
As it baked in the ashes hot: 

But, Alfred's heart was so sad and sore 

He forgot the bread to tend ; 
And, when the woman looked in the door 
And found it burning her guest before, 

To her wrath was there no end ; 

"You idle dog!" she, in rage, cried out, 

'You'll not turn these cakes, so sweet, 
But, let them burn to a crisp, no doubt, 
(Whilst, there, you sharpen your arrows stout,) 
Tho' of them you'll, gladly, eat!" 



MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS 

'Tis morning on the mountains ; 

The steely sky to blue is born ; 
'Tis morning in the highlands ; 

Awake, ye sheep and nimble fawn! 

'Tis morning on the mountains; 

The dewdrops flash on larches tall; 
'Tis morning in the highlands; 

Ye birds, your love notes sweetly call! 

'Tis morning on the mountains; 

In dawning light the brooklets gleam; 
'Tis morning in the highlands; 

Sing, streams, to greet the Sun God's beam! 

'Tis morning on the mountains; 

The vapors rise from valleys green; 
'Tis morning in the highlands; 

Fair flowers, your faces let be seen! 

5 Tis morning on the mountains; 

The hamlet, soon, ye'll see below; 
'Tis morning in the highlands; 

Blow, softly, summer breezes, blow! 

'Tis morning on the mountains; 

The insect hum breaks on the air; 
'Tis morning in the highlands; 

Arise, thou Sluggard! dost thou dare, 

When Nature's just the fairest, 

To lie in bed and waste thy time? 

To miss this lovely vision, — 

This sight so charming and sublime? 

Ye Seekers after Beauty, 

Go search where heathery hilltops blue 
Apollo kisses gently, 

Each morn, in sign of friendship true! 



Ah! had but I the talent 

To sketch with skilful fingers keen, 
When Morning, on the mountains, 

Discloses her enchantment scene ! 

WEBSTER'S FIRST CASE 

The American Statesman, great Webster, 
Saw the light, the first time, one spring day, 

Spending years on a farm of few acres, 
Where his brother and he raked the hay: 

Here, one summer, a woodchuck raised havoc 
With the corn they had planted in pride, 

And, at length, after endless endeavors, 

Him they caught in a trap, long and wide: 

Little Daniel, (e'er, fond of dumb creatures,) 
Felt quite sad, as at captive he gazed, 

To think, soon, he'd be slain; so, his father 
He begged freedom to give the beast dazed: 

To petition his parent made answer, 
"The poor animal's case we will try; 

You, Ezekiel, as lawyer against him, 

While you, Dan, for the woodchuck must vie! 

"I, your sire, will, hard by, sit and listen 
To the pleas of th' attorneys with care; 

At the end of the court's weighty session, 
As the judge, I'll, then, give verdict fair!" 

So, the suit was begun by Ezekiel, 

Who, in presence of prisoner well-scared, 

Told how crops by the culprit were ruined, — 
How all sorts of mean mischief he dared ; — 

How much trouble and worry he caused them; 

Then, in finishing plea, short but strong, 
He proposed, for the damage committed, 

That the thief should be hung with a thong, 

And his skin, (his sole feature redeeming,) 
To the town be, then, taken and sold ; 

At these words judge's eyes softly twinkled ; 
It was plain he liked well the plan bold: 

It was, now, Daniel's turn to case argue; 

And, with pity and love playing part, 
He arose, and, in tones earnest, eager, 

For the prisoner he pled from his heart: 

He explained how the grain had been taken 
To keep breath in a creature of God, — 

How no kernel was wilfully wasted 

By the one, who, like them, trod the sod: 



82 



After showing, most clearly, good reasons 

Why the poor, trembling brute should be freed, 

His long speech by this question he ended, 
While the court to his words paid good heed; 

"O great Judge, before whom stand I pleading, 
Reflect well ! your brains cudgel and rack ! 

Do you dare," and his voice slightly wavered, 
"To take life which you, ne'er, can give back?" 

The old man, brought to tears by th' oration, 
Quite forgetful of all but beast's woe, 

To his son screamed, in tones of a trumpet, 

"Here! Zeke, Zeke, that poor woodchuck let 
go!" 



ECHO LAKE 

Outside a rustic boathouse old, 

Once, sat three friends and I; 
Around us frowned the mountains bold; 

Above us smiled the sky: 

We watched the shades the crags o'er-creep, 

The birds the waters skim; 
We watched the clouds that fled, like sheep, 

Beyond the horizon's rim, 

Before the breeze which combed the lake 

In many a gleaming wave; 
We listened to the echoes wake 

The stillness of the grave: 

Had not it been a vessel small 

Up-ploughed the lovely lake, 
(Whose whistle rang from mountain wall 

And made our pulses quake,) 

We would have wished, — my friends and I, 

On Echo Lake's loved shore 
The calm and charm of sea and sky 

Would last, forevermore: 

As sat I, there, one friend beside, 

It seemed to me his eye 
Grew azure as the glistening tide 

Beneath the cloud-flecked sky; 

His brow, which, but an hour before, 

Was flushed by falsehood's tale, 
Grew, now, serene as the lake that bore 

Upon its breast one sail: 

But, all too soon, it came the hour 
When we must leave the place, — 



Leave lake and cliff and tiny tower 
On old Bald Mountain's face: 

I've never seen this charming spot 

Since that fair, August day, 
When, with three friends, 'twas my sweet lot 

Along the lake to stray: 

I wonder if, to-day, the vale 

Is green with maiden-hair! 
I wonder if the ghost-flower pale 

The dim, dark woods, still, bear! 

I wonder if the wavelets light, 

To-day, smile just as sweet 
As when they danced, that morning bright, 

Ashore, to kiss our feet! 

Ah! Echo Lake, embosomed deep 

Among the mountains high, 
I would, at last, by you find sleep, 

Beneath the bright, blue sky! 

And, might the birds, that build their nests 

In Eagle Cliff, above, 
Sing, flying o'er the craggy crests, 

A dirge, in tender love: 

Then, if there comes that evil day 

When I am last of kin, 
Inter my bones, dear Friends, I pray, 

Beside the mountain lin! 

That lin, so fair, so smiling, gay, 

With fir-tree setting rare, 
In mem'ry of that summer day 

When Eden found I, there! 

And raise no carvings, rich or rare, 

Above my pulseless breast, 
But, let a boulder, rough and bare, 

In lieu of a headstone, rest! 

A rock, (by Nature's chisel hewn, 

To which the mosses cling, 
And, o'er whose mica-spots the moon 

May flash, at midnight,) bring ! 

Each spring, fair ferns, with hair-like stems, 

Will cluster round my head; 
And violets, (those pure, wood gems,) 

Will bow above my bed: 

And, then, from morn throughout the night, 
I'll list the lapping wave 



A-trolling, in its tenor light, 
Around my wildwood grave : 

Kind Friends, this favor sole I crave; 

I ask for nothing more; 
But, by the Lake, oh, make my grave! 

This grant ! I you implore ! 



AN INDIAN LAMENT 

O Sharon, town of lakes and hills, 

Of forests and of flowers, 
My heart with joy and rapture thrills 

To ramble thro' thy bowers! 

Among thy forests fair are found 

Full many a noble tree 
Which grew when o'er the hilly ground 

Roamed bands of red men free : 

They fished upon the waters clear 

Of Massapoag afar; 
O'er steep Moose Hill they chased the deer 

Till shone the evening star: 

King Philip passed its tavern old, 

Ere camped he for the night, 
The eve before he grew so bold 

To Medfield set alight; 

But, spared the king old Sharon's inn 

Because some chief had said 
The Indians' friend the owner'd been, — 

The red man he had fed : 

The lakes and streams, yet, witness bear 

Of Philip's warriors brave, 
Who, long ago, on foot did fare 

Thro' woods their waters lave: 

Perchance, the bronzed Indian belle 

Her dusky locks did deck 
With blossoms of the white cornel, 

Beside yon brawling beck: 

On Sharon's many hillocks high, 
'Mong chestnuts, (tall and trim,) 

And scarlet oaks the birches sigh, 
When day is growing dim; 

They grieve because they furnish not, 

Today, the swift canoe, 
In twilight cool or noontide hot, 

To cleave the lakelet blue: 



83 



Lake Wolomolopoag, still, smiles, 

As in King Philip's time, 
Tho' o'er its stretch of azure miles 

Sounds, now, no paddles' chime: 

No more, the Indian skims the lake; 

No more, he slays the deer; 
The white man's followed in his wake, 

And, now, he's master, here: 

But, on the names of lake and stream, 
(Which have their meanings sweet,) 

The residents must, often, dream, — 
When Sharon was the seat 

Of tribes of men who lived and died 

Upon the very ground 
Where, maybe, you and I abide, 

Tho' hear our ears no sound 

Except in murm'rings of the breeze, 

Upon some summer's day, 
Which whisper to the nodding trees 

Some sad, sweet, Indian lay: 

Oh, Sharon Town, I love thee, well! 

I love thy hills of green ! 
I love each dale and mossy dell 

When damped with dewy sheen ; 

And, as I rove thy woodlands wild, 
In search of windflowers white, 

I feel I'm, too, a forest child 
Like those of whom I write ! 

My soul with sympathy outflows 
To them, who, once, were torn 

From all they loved, by pale-faced foes, 
To die, alone, forlorn! 



Melt the snow on the hillocks and mountains; 

Streams, released from their bonds, laughing, run 

O'er rough rocks, forming myriad fountains: 

'Neath the trees, (in whose bursting buds brown 
Tiny leaflets are, yet, snugly sleeping,) 

'Bove the snow, (ling'ring, still, tho' we frown,) 
A bright blossom is, now, coyly, peeping: 

This pink sprite of the dim, sylvan glade 

At her orisons, ever, is kneeling; 
From the morn till the gloaming doth fade, 

(When wood-warblers sweet pibrochs are peal- 
ing,) 

She exhales from her rare, ruddy lip 

Purer incense than, e'er, rose from altar; 

And, as bees and swift dragon-flies sip 
Vestal's nectar, she bends o'er her psalter: 

Hast thou, never, dear Friends, in glad days, 
Sought where trailing arbutus abideth? — 

Trodden, e'er, dusky, rustic by-ways 

Where her meek, modest visage she hideth ? 

Thou hast not? Then, some halcyon spring, 

When bright brooks thro' the heather are dancing, 

When the redwings their rippling notes fling, 
As, in glee, thro' the glen go they glancing, 

Seek the guardian nymph of the wood, 

At her vigil, her incense diffusing, 
While her bright, blushing face in a hood 

Of brown leaflets hides she, deeply musing! 

It is here, in this tree-vaulted fane, 

Where the soft-feathered tribe chant Love's story, 
That the Mayflower shows us how vain 

Is a life that's lived not to God's Glory! 



WHERE THE MAYFLOWER FAIR YE'LL 
FIND 

'Twixt moss banks scattered thick with leaf-mould, 
Tucked up warmly with snow-blankets sparkling, 

Mother Earth in her arms doth enfold 

Wayward brooks which away would flow dark- 
ling; 

But, in fetters of ice lie they long, 

Waiting, watching for leaf-buds a-swelling; — 
Listening, too, for the bluebird's sweet song 

Wondrous tales of the springtime a-telling: 

When, behold! the south wind and the sun 



8^ 



SUNSET 

When drowsy tinklings lull the far-off fold, 
And shadows lengthen over heath and wold, 
Great Phoebus comes in gorgeous car of red, 
With purple pillows 'neath his radiant head, 
Rich, crimson curtains shutting out the light 
Emitted by his fiery steeds of might; 
And, as the driver guides the golden reins, 
The night shades fall from out their flowing manes ; 
From stallions' hoofs snap sparks along the way, 
Which gleam like silver lamps, at closing day; 
When, lo! in the fading West, fair Hesperus ap- 
pears, 
(Aurora's lovely son, so said the ancient seers;) 



And, when Diana, in her hunting gear, 

Thro' night's blue gateway, sweet and coy, doth 

peer, 
The night-wind, rising, whispers, low and light, 
"The day is done! Good-night, dear Love, good 

night!" 

THE ROBIN'S NEST 

On the homestead's sunny, southern front, 

Topping one porch pillar tall, 
It has been, for years, a robin's wont 

To erect her cottage small; — 

A cot made of sticks and straw and string, 

Plastered o'er by mud, with care, 
Fashioned snug and warm, thro' which doth ring 

Love songs sweet of the feathered pair: 

The projecting slates of the homestead's roof 

Serve to shield it from the rain; 
And a maple tree, not far aloof, 

Breaks the breeze from the rolling main: 

Two fine broods the robins raised, this year, 

In their mud-walled mansion fair; 
But, no more, the nestlings' cries I hear; 

All is desolate and bare: 

I, no longer, see the father fly 

To that habitat, aloft, 
With a worm for them that, helpless, lie 

In their straw-lined cradle soft; 

For, the little ones outgrew the nest, 

(Where the three blue eggs, once, lay,) 

'Neath their mother's bosom, closely pressed, 
Thro' erch charming, springtime day: 

So, no longer, sounds, at early morn, 

The sweet, tender lullaby 
Of the mother bird to loved new-born, 

Thro' the house beneath the sky; 

But, on looking, closely, near the ground, 

('Neath clay castle of the air,) 
Birdlings brown I spy who'll, soon, be bound 

To a realm they deem more fair, 

With their parents, who, the nesting o'er, 

Have discarded vests of red, 
And, in dingy doublets, south, will soar, 

By a wondrous instinct led: 

May the One who guides the onward flight 



85 



Of these birds, — my neighbors rare, 
Be to them a bright and shining light 
Showing up the fowler's snare! 

And, another spring, ere leaves grow green, 
May the same plump robins two 

Return, once again, to the well-loved scene 
Of their wooing sweet and true! 

May the mud-built cot be garnished, new, 
And prepared for a summer's stay, 

'Neath the "bright, blue sky and the falling dew, 
Ere the hawthorns bud in May! 

NATURE'S LESSON 

Oft, are seen in tropic regions, 

Growing in the arid soil, 
Plants, with fleshy leaflets juicy, 

Armed with thorns all foes to foil; 
Mailed in scorn and spine-like armor, 

Year by year, alone, they stand, 
Help, e'en intercourse, refusing 

With all dwellers in that land: 

In their pride and haughty grandeur, 

On they live for many a year, 
When, behold ! change, great and wondrous, 

In the aloe doth appear; 
From below a spikelet rises 

Crowned with blossoms, fair and rare, 
Sweetest incense wide diffusing 

Thro' the scorching, desert air: 

While abroad it flings its fragrance, 

Turning spot to hallowed ground, 
Lo! its spines become quite harmless; 

Withered, fall its thorns around; 
It has lived to see the folly 

To exist for self alone; 
And, ere yielding up Life's burden, 

Its repentance 'twould make known: 

Lessons great the cactus teaches 

To us hardened, human plants, — 
That, tho' youth hath been most selfish, 

Tho' our hearts have been the haunts, 
Once, of thoughts impure, unholy, 

We have, yet, a chance to show 
That God's Love our souls hath softened, 

That we'd soothe another's woe: 

Let us, then, like old agave, 

Tho' our locks be thin and hoar, 

Broadcast, strew our souls' affection 
Ere we reach the Pearly Door, 



On its shining hinges swinging, 

Giving peeps of joys untold 
To each wond'ring, yearning mortal 

Who would tread the Streets of Gold ! 

Then, each face, with love transfigured, 

Bright will glow in age's light; 
And each tongue, (before, so silent,) 

Clear will sing its last good night; 
Like the swan which chants once, only, 

Sweetest strains that ear hath heard, 
Let us soothe some soul, ere dying, 

Be it but by one, kind word! 



JULY 

The country lanes are dusty, brown and dry; 
The sun pours out his fiercest, hottest heat; 
From mullein stalks bold kingbirds, "Kip per!' 

cry, 
As down they dart unwary bugs to meet, 

While, low, the goldfinch gay is calling, 
"Te tee de de!" from out the grassy glen; 

The hills are hazy; 

The kine are lazy, 
For, July has come, again! 

The modest daisy, loved by Junetime's bride, 
No more, from verdant fields, our eyes salute; 
But, in her place, St. John's wort, in his pride, 
Each weary passer-by desires to suit; 

The milkweed's head's becoming heavy, 
And grosser grows, and pinker, prouder, when 

It hears a-coming 

The bees a-humming, 
Now, July has come, again! 

The fields, a month ago, so soft and green, 
Today, are parched and stubby, stiff and sere; 
And, on their yellow bosoms may be seen, 
Stacked high, the grasses of the early year; 

While, hungry, 'mong the cocks are hopping 
The restless redwings of the boggy fen, 
The seeds a-getting, 
All else forgetting, 
Since July has come, again ; 

The pimpernel, (old shepherds' weather glass,) 
Its tiny, purple petals, never, close; 
And cobwebs, on the shortly-shaven grass, 
Predict, "No rain!" upon the corn in rows; 
"Caw! caw!" the crows we hear a-calling, 
With dreamy pewees, ev'ry now and then, 
The woods a-waking 



Whilst we are baking, 
For, July has come, again! 

And when the sunset comes to stain the sky 

With vivid hues of purple and of red, 

The quails, "Bob White!" from yonder meadows 

cry, 
With chimney swifts a-skimming overhead ; 

"Chip! chip!" we hear them, ceaseless, chatter; 
Then, in a second, gone from sight and ken, 

With ease a-swooping 

While we lie drooping, 
Now, July has come, again! 

No cooling, evening breezes come to free 
Our tired frames from this oppressive heat; 
But, yet, we scent the hay, from o'er the lea, 
Which greets us, now, with incense passing sweet; 

Then, in those moorlands, blue and boundless, 
(So fair, and, yet, unknown to mortal men,) 
Arcturus, beaming, 
We see a-gleaming, 
For, July has come, again! 



MY BOYS 

I dream, often, of the pupils in my school of long 

ago, 
And to think I'll see them, never, almost makes the 

teardrops flow: 

There was Clifford, (now, a snowdrop in the 

heavenly pastures green,) 
On whose marble brow devotion to his duty, e'er, 

was seen: 

There was Henry; — (how his scrawling I can see, 

to-day, again!) 
Now, a lawyer, land deeds scribbling, o'er his ear, 

still, yet, a pen : 

Harry, too, comes up before me, — lazy Harry, lean- 
ing low 

On his elbows, after throwing on my desk a rose in 
blow : 

Then, I think, with deepest pleasure, of dear Rob, 

with cheek so red, 
Full of mischief, but, so truthful, numbered now 

among the dead: 

On the wind, ofttimes, is wafted, full and clear, the 

rest above, 
Bird notes sweet of choir-boy Charlie, like an angel's 

song of love : 



86 



Tiny Dan I hear reciting with fair, tear-stained face 

bent low, 
Anc his clothing hung in tatters down from elbow, 

knee and toe : 

Blue-eyed Will I see, so joyous when I on his les- 
sons smiled, 

But, so filled with jealous anger if I praised another 
chQd: 

Harris, too, I hold in mem'ry, — Harris of the active 

mind, 
Since, a graduate of Harvard, wedding wife, ah! 

so refined! 

How black James's dark eye sparkled, when his 
reader he could scan! 

How his forehead rose in wrinkles, when the num- 
ber hour began! 

There was smiling, Syrian Yesnig, ev'ry day, his 

teacher's joy; — 
Always, perfect in his lessons and his conduct, too; 

dear boy! 

Little Lee, ne'er, half so happy as when asked a 

theme to write, 
Now, an editor imposing in the paper world, so 

bright : 

Last, I'll speak of bashful Otis, — Otis with the eye 

of fun, 
And the dimpled cheek where teardrops rained, 

when kept for tricks he'd done ; — 

I can feel his arms around me, my forgiveness full 

to win, 
As he offered some wee token in atonement for his 

sin ; — 

Otis, after this, a soldier handsome looking, brave 

and gay 
In his uniform becoming, as he marched to war 

away : 

And a score of other darlings, for whose names I've 

here no space, 
But, whose mem'ry will, forever, in my bosom hold 

its place: 

Which of all these boys, I mention, do you think 
I loved the best, — 

Harris, Henry, Charles or Clifford, were my prefer- 
ence expressed? 



87 



Whom could I but love most fondly other than 

the hazel-eyed, — 
The young rogue, who, years long after, for his 

country would have died? 

Years have passed, and deep-set wrinkles Time has 

furrowed on my brow; 
But, the boys, (my. once loved pupils,) tho' grown, 

bearded men, are, now, 

Just the same as when I listened to their childish 

voices sweet; — 
Just the same as when I saw them sitting in each 

battered seat; 

And I wish that, all together, I might meet my 
boys, once more! 

See them gathered in a circle, ere another Goes Be- 
fore! 

THE INVALID'S VISION 

A woman, weak, weary and wasted 

From sickness and sorrow so deep 
She thought almost death she had tasted, 

(For nought praying God save to sleep,) 

Lay back, ill at ease, on her pillows, 
As o'er her frail form surged, in glee, 

The demons of pain like the billows 

Which swamp helpless skiffs of the sea: 

When, just as twelve strokes broke the stillness, 
And hushed were all sounds save bells' ring, 

She heard, in her sadness and illness, 
A sound, upward making her spring 

To see, near her bed, a form beaming, 

(Of tall and heroic a mould,) 
In white clad, his halo a-gleaming 

Like meteors bright, as each fold 

Of mantle like silver did shimmer 

In the light by his halo diffused, 
While but for a second did shiver 

This woman, (forever, unused 

To visits from angels, so holy,) 

Tho', oft, she had read that on earth 

Some few, favored beings, tho' lowly, 
Have seen these fair spirits of worth : 

She waited to hear what the message 
Might be which this messenger brought, 

Or what happy outcome might presage 
This visit with mystery fraught: 



He raised not the veil form enshrouded 

In many a soft, glistening fold, 
But, gazed at the face with pain clouded, 

And said, "Follow me!" when there rolled 



Seemed all of this world's fleeting glory; 

So, then, she determined to give 
What, there, she had seen in this story 

That others might listen and live: 



Thro' the innermost depths of her being 
Full strength and youth's vigor complete; 

She leaped from her couch, the sprite seeing 
Precede her from bedroom to street: 



As this she resolved, the form burning 

Of beauteous messenger fair 
Dissolved into mist, and, she, turning, 

In vain, sought his sweet presence, there : 



Where e'er her guide led her she followed, — 

Thro' poverty, misery, vice; — 
Thro' highways and byways where wallowed 

Low creatures whose heads bore a price: 

At last, when her heart ached with grieving, 
When tears poured from eyes in a stream, 

She turned to her leader, sighs heaving 
Her bosom, and asked, "Dost thou deem 

"There's help for this terrible anguish? 

For all this great woe I have seen? 
Can I, selfish sinner, e'er vanquish 

These prickings of conscience, so keen? 



Yes, she in her chamber was lying, 
As formerly, stretched on the bed, 

But, God had, at last, heard her sighing, — 
Had answered the prayers she had said; — 

Had sent her a vision of beauty 

To show there were others less blest; — 
To show her the pathway of duty 

Lies, oft, o'er the rocks of unrest: 

When many, long months had dragged slowly 
The woman grew stout, strong and well ; 

But, ne'er, she'll forget message holy 
God sent her cold nature to quell. 



"Alas! for myself I've lived, ever! 

For myself have I sorrowed and wept! 
For self have I wrought, thinking, never, 

Of these, — my sad sisters bereft!" 



NEARER TO NATURE'S HEART 

Nearer to Nature's heart! Nearer her breast! 
Oh, let us, never, part ! There let me rest ! 



When she these words heart-felt had uttered, 
The angel turned toward her, once more; — 

Threw back o'er his head veil that fluttered, 
Revealing a face, ne'er before, 

She'd seen half so lovely or gracious, 
(With orbs of a dark, lustrous sheen,) 

And, high, on his forehead veracious 
A crown lay more sparkling, I ween, 

Than rubies, (or diamonds, fairer,) 

Which make monarchs' tiars to gleam; 

While, just on the top of tiara 
A cross with this motto did seem 

To fairly flash fire, as it glittered 

With light, (which to Heaven high did soar,) 
"Christ's Cross hold thou up, heart imbittered, 

And peace shalt thou know, evermore!" 

As read she this sweet admonition 

From out flashing words of the cross, 

A feeling of patience, submission 

Thrilled, swiftly, her frame, and, like dross 



Listing her gentle voice, where pine-trees sigh, — 
That is my sweetest choice! There, let me die! 

Breathing her flowery breath, off, on the hills, — 
That would be easy death, there, by the rills! 

Feeling the pulse of spring leap thro' her chest, — 
Hearing her throstles sing, — that's bliss, the best! 

Would, Friends, in yonder town, I could expound 
Joys of the wildwood brown, here, have I found! 

Free from the coil and care, free from the strife, 
This is existence rare! This is true life! 



THE LAST REQUEST 

(Dedicated to my Friend, Miss M. H.) 

A noble lady, she, 

Black-haired, red-cheeked, and tall, 

With deep brown eyes which laughed with glee 

And looked in love on all : 






_^-^ 



Within a city school, 

She taught the upper class, 

And, 'neath her firm but gentle rule, 

Progressed each lad and lass: 

In music they excelled, 
For, music loved she best, — 
This teacher who their interest held 
'Bove ev'ry one the rest: 

One day, a message came, 

As in her school she stood, 

To which was signed her father's name, 

Her dear, old father good: 



The daughter, at this plea, 

The old piano neared, 

And played the hymn, twice thro', ere she 

In yonder chamber peered; 

The notes had died away; 
The daughter looked in love 
Upon a form which silent lay; 
The soul had soared Above ; 

No trace of pain was, there; 
A smile o'erspread the face, 
Which, circled by its silver hair, 
Seemed crowned with heavenly grace: 



She read the letter thro' ; 
The master's door she sought, 
And, (in a short, brief interview,) 
She told what news was brought: 

Her mother, dying, lay; 
For her to come she prayed; 

And dear Miss H was on her way, 

Ere day began to fade: 

Long miles had she to ride 
To that far, country town, 
Where on a sunny, green hillside 
There lay the homestead brown: 

Each minute seemed an hour; 
Each hour was full an age, 
And night had, now, begun to lower 
Ere entered she the stage; 

But, at the old home door, 
That stage she left, at last; 
She saw the look her father wore, 
As, kissing him, she passed, 

On, towards the bedroom, where, 
Upon its couch, did lie 
The mother with her snowy hair 
And swiftly glazing eye; 

She knelt beside the bed ; 
Her mother's face she kissed, 
And, as she stroked her silver head, 
These words she, then, did list: 

"My Martha, play the hymn 
I, always, loved so. well!" 
And duller grew the eyeballs dim, 
And down their curtains fell: 



89 



This tale was told to me 

By her whose music bore 

Her mother o'er Death's seething Se; 

To yonder Shining Shore, 

Where she, in peace, doth rest, 
But, where she, still, must long 
To bind that daughter to her breast 
Who Death made sweet with sons;! 



OH, WORSHIP IN THE FANES OF 
NATURE! 

Of what avail is it to raise 
The costly temples of these days, — 
Rare poems grand in sculptured stone 
Like that which smiles in old Cologne, 
Or, the Cathedral of Milan, — 
Famed masterpiece of brainy man? 

Dost think thy vows and prayers, Dear Heart, 
(Lisped low, in such great works of art,) 
Will reach the Heavenly Courts on High, 
More surely, than pure thought or sigh, 
Soft breathed, in some rude, humble shed 
Scarce yielding shelter for thine head? 

The earliest temple was the wood 
'Neath which th' inspired prophet stood : 
In such fair fanes, where brooks intone 
The service to the wind's low moan, 
Oh, why not gather, during days 
When thrushes trill their roundelays? 

The deep groined roof of forest hall 
Is borne aloft by pine-trees tall ; 
Here, crouched in some grand evergreen, 
Ofttimes, a squirrel may be seen; 



And, sitting on his haunches, there, 
To crunch a nut, (his chosen fare,) 

A priest he seems, in gown of gray, 
With hands outstretched, about to pray; 
Or, bowing low, the preacher stands 
With Holy Host within his hands, — 
A wholesome wafer God hath blessed 
For him to eat, this Day of Rest: 

Why not, with thrush and squirrel gray, 

'Neath leafy fane, in summer, pray? 

Then, cast the alms, (which thou canst spare,) 

No, not to some old church repair, 

Nor, yet, to build a minster grand, 

(The fairest be it in the land,) 

But, give to her, whose limbs are cold 

As yonder marble pavement old 

On which she kneels, with lips grown dumb 

And shiv'ring figure stiff and numb; 

Behind whose heels, with stealthy tread, 

Prowls on that wolf, — fierce famine dread! 

That blind man, groping with his cane 
To find the door of yon bright fane, — 
Exchange his tattered coat, so worn, 
For one of fleecy warmth, this morn! 
A ten-pound note, (expended, there, 
Between this piteous, pauper pair,) 

Will do a thousand times, I swear, 
(And you'll regret your action, ne'er!) 
More good than building, where you may, 
A kirk of stone, tho' fair as day! 
The purest shrine upon the sod 
Is where th' unselfish kneel to God ! 



TOILERS OF THE SEA 

Far 'neath the surface of yonder southern sea, 
Year after year, toil a host of workers wee ; 
Budding and branching like boughs of leafy trees; 
Fashioning cells like the comb of honey-bees; 
Drawing from Neptune the lime to lay their walls; 
Giving their lives, e'en, to form their fairy halls; 
Toiling, for ages, with, ne'er, a moment's rest; 
Toiling till hardened is ev'ry tiny breast: 

Millions of polyps thus work, by day and night, 
Down 'neath the water where shadowy is the light, 
Building those islands, like giant horse-shoes lone, 
Out in the ocean, with surges making moan; 
When to the surface they come, their work is o'er; 
Now, they may list to the billows' rush and roar 



Trying to ruin those bulwarks, strong yet fair, 
Built of the bodies of countless creatures rare: 

Hard tho' the coral of which the isles are made, 
Ceaseless is warfare by boist'rous billows weighed; 
So, after years, some small bits to dust are ground ; 
Seaweeds are caught by sharp, ragged rocks around ; 
Logs, loosed from wrecks, float ashore and all decay, 
Making a soil which increases, day by day; 
Then, seeds, by birds or by balmy breezes borne, 
Quickly upspring the low islands to adorn: 

Soon, groves of palms shoot their tall, straight stems 

on high, 
(Tossing their green, feath'ry fans against the sky,) 
Wooing the ships in their calm lagoons to hide, 
Safe, till the tempest, outside the isles, hath died ; 
Then, when the sunshine peeps thro' the rifts of 

.gray, 
Falling in blessing upon the little bay, 
Sweet is the scene to the eyes of sailors brave, 
Far from their homes o'er the briny ocean wave: 

Outside the islet, the angry surges flash, 
Breaking in foam, as against the rock they dash ; 
Inside the ring, with its beach of shining sand, 
(As in a cradle, by graceful palm-trees fanned,) 
Safe, lie the vessels, while playful wavelets lave 
Keels which but now rocked above a yawning grave; 
There, may they anchor till blue is white-capped sea! 
There, may they rest till the storm-clouds landward 
flee! 

Little, the workers, (who wrought these isles, so 

fair,) 
Knew what grand structures their patient skill could 

dare; 
But, 'twas their instinct, their duty, (shall we say?) 
So, on they drudged, hour by hour and day by day: 
Thus, may we men these true toilers of the sea 
Take for a pattern, and patient workmen be, 
Ne'er, asking, "Why?" but, accepting work we're 

given 
Till tasks are done, and our earthly chain be riven ! 

SLEEP 

Most gracious gift of God, O Sleep, 
Thy comradeship I hope to keep! 
For many months, you passed me by, 
Nor heeded prayer or tear or sigh; 
And came but at the birth of day, 
Wrapped round with misty blankets gray! 
But, now, methinks, thou art my friend, — 
My guardian angel to the end! 
So, when have flown the hours of day. 



90 



Oh, hover o'er my hearthstone gray! 

Then, when I cast me on my bed, 

Stand, close, O Sleep, to couch's head! 

Thy rustling garments let me hear 

Before the midnight hour is near! 

Thy finger on mine eyelids lay 

And banish ev'ry thought of day! 

With magic touch each pain reprove! 

All needless worries far remove! 

Blot out each sorrow! — chafing care! 

Allow, no more, that dread night-mare, 

But, bid forgetfulness to stay 

Till rosy grows the dawning day! 

Then, break the band, O Dark-robed Sleep, 

Which you upon these eyelids keep, 

And, for a few years more, I pray, 

Revisit me, at fall of day! 

A few short years, O Sleep, until 

You place upon my eyes, at will, 

The seal Aurora, ne'er, can break; — 

The seal to stay until I wake 

Within those Heavenly Courts Above, 

Where all is peace and joy and love! 

LITTLE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT 

High, on a lonely headland, 

Swept by the wind and snow, 
Stands the Kerdonis Lighthouse 

Kept by good Matelot; 
There, when the fog hung heavy, 
• There, thro' the biting cold, 
He trimmed the great lamp which shows the way 

To the sailors brave and bold : 

Once, when the day was dying, 

(Chilly and raw, the air,) 
Climbed the old lighthouse keeper 

Ovc- the winding stair, 
Filling the massive lantern, 

Then, when the task was done, 
Descending the steps, he dropped down dead, 

At the hour of setting sun: 

While by his side, in sorrow, 

Prayed Mother Matelot, 
Bravely her two young children 

Mounted the tower, in woe, 
Trying to set in motion 

Levers which moved the light, 
But, failing in this, they took their turn 

At it pushing, thro' the night: 

Twenty times, each, they drove it, 

Counting awake to keep, 
Carl and Marie, his sister, 



(Youngsters in need of sleep,) 
Up in that turret chamber, 

Listing the breakers' roar, 
And thinking of him they loved, below, 

Who would, never, hark them, more: 

Yet, in that lonely tower, 

Hearing the billows dash, 
Hearing the beating raindrops, 

Hearing the blizzard's crash, 
Yet, altho' cold and frightened, — 

Hungry, (for, sup they'd none,) 
They toiled, thro' long hours, the ships to save, 

Till that fearful night was done: 

Then, when they saw the dawning, 

Carl, (ten years only,) crept 
Down to his mourning mother, 

(Who by his father wept,) 
Asking if he and sister 

Might from their toiling cease 
And have, (now the ships were safe from harm,) 

Just a bit of bread, apiece: 

Seamen, who swam the ocean, 

Near to the Belle Isle Light, 
During that dreadful tempest 

When that the waves rolled white, 
Know ye what puny fingers 

Turned the loved light for thee 
To show you the spot where rocks lay hid 

In that surging, seething sea? 

Weak were those little fingers, — 

Fingers of children small, 
But, they performed their duty, 

(Up in that tower tall,) 
Duty to ev'ry sailor, 

Out on that awful night, 
And duty to one who slept below 

With a face so still and white ! 

Such is the stuff which fashions 

Heroes of larger type, — 
Heroes which make a nation, 

When that the time is ripe, — 
Heroes whose aim is only 

Bravely to dare and do, 
And, then, if it needs be, give their lives 

When their noble work is thro' ! 



'TWAS ON A SUMMER'S NIGHT 

'Twas on a summer's night 
Among the pines sweet-scented, 



91 



And Luna flung her light 
At what she saw contented, 

When, on a path 

That climbed a rath, 
(With wildflowers bright imbedded,) 

A man and maid 

Love's spell obeyed, 
As it they slowly threaded: 

Upon the youthful pair 

Looked lovely loosestrife yellow, — 
On him with curling hair, 

(A tall and stately fellow, — ) 
On eyes so bright 
With tender light, 
(That Love or Luna lent them,) 
As on they strayed, 
All unafraid 
Of sorrows, years since, sent them: 

And, there, 'neath falling dew 

And starlight faintly gleaming, 
Love's story, old yet new, 

He told the damsel dreaming; 

Then, when they'd sealed 

The love revealed 
By kisses oft repeated, 

With arms entwined, 

Their vows to bind, 
They o'er the road retreated: 

Long years have passed away 

Since, 'neath the moonlight beaming, 
Those luckless lovers gay 

Strolled, arm in arm, a-dreaming; 

But, now asleep, 

Where lichens creep 
Around his headstone glooming, 

The youth, as bold 

As knight of old, 
Lies low 'neath clover blooming: 

And she, whose wealth of hair 

Was like a crown of glory, 

Hath lived to learn that care 

Can turn its masses hoary; 

Yet, when the night 

Of her troth-plight 
Returns, each year, a lassie 

She stands, once more, 

Her swain before, 
Upon the hill-path grassy! 



OH, LINGER, LOVELY SPRING! 

Dear Mother Earth her mantle white hath shed, — 
That ermine cloak she's worn the season past; 

The snowy cap, which long concealed her head, 
She's cast to show her wind-blown locks, at last: 

These wind-tossed tresses, now, are lightly bound 
With Mayflower garlands fragrant, frail and 
fair; 

And o'er her ample breast is wrapped around 

Bright, glistening green, in texture, rich and rare : 

Her sceptre, thro* the winter, gemmed with frost, 
Hath, now, become a willow wand most fine 

Upon whose hilt forgetmenots embossed 
With dainty dewdrops sparkling ever shine: 

When magic staff is pointed towards the hills, 

(Whose crests are crowned with crystal coiffures 
white, ) 

That hour, is seen a million gleaming rills, 
In gleeful dance adown the slopes, in sight: 

Wheree'er she treads, meek violets awake; — 
The crocus and the hyacinth upspring; 

Whene'er she smiles, the mountain torrents shake, 
And fling their froth as merrily they sing: 

At mystic words she utters, wailing wind 
Gives place to gentle zephyr, on whose wing 

Is wafted incense sweeter than ye'll find 

In smoking censer swung where anthems ring: 

And, then, the robins, happy in amours, 

Their rippling notes trill, gayly, night and morn ; 

The Sun, with sweetest smile, to greenest meads 
allures 
Where scores of starry primroses are born: 

Enchanting Spring, oh, change your vesture not! 

Your lovely, witching guise, forever, wear, 
For, when you smile, our sorrows are forgot; 

Our hearts, for love of thee, lose ev'ry care! 



HE HEARD ALTHO IN PRISON CELL 

The sun behind the mountains high was sinking to 

his rest; 
And gilded grew each wooded spur and rocky Alpine 

crest ; 
The valley, in whose bosom pure the windflower 

white did bloom, 



92 



At this late hour, in silence lay, close wrapped in Then, on the evening air arose a soldier's war-song 

purple gloom: bold, — 

The song his master used to love, in those dear days 

The veery and the hermit thrush their good night of old, 

songs had sung, When he, a warrior strong and brave, the wily foe 

When, down a darkening, forest path his footsteps did meet; 

lightly swung Or, when in time of pleasant truce, he Saladin did 

A stripling page, of graceful mien, in velvet doublet greet : 

blue, 

Who brushed, with hasty feet, the moss already The minstrel sang to music of his long-used, loved 

damp with dew: guitar; 

When, hist ! was that an angel s voice from yon, 

He gained the road that climbed the steep on which bright, shining star? 

a castle stood No ! no ! It was his master's voice responding to the 

And thicker fell the shadows dark from out the rich, song, — 

pine wood ; The voice of Richard, of his King, the breezes borne 

The massive pile, (with mosses, gray, but, clinging along: 

™rv."7' «. * J u-**i ~. * u u-~ „roo j;™i„ "He is not dead! In yonder cell he lives! Oh, God 

With turret-tower and battlement, by him was dimly h ' rM" 

And, on his knees young Blondin sank, as eyes to 

Thro' slit-like casements cressets flared, and on his heaven he raised; 

. Li xiis curly head, no more, snail rest upon the floor 

The clank of arms, of jingling spurs and many a XT ° ston £' „ , . . n , „. , 

•ii,., J No more, shall reeking prison walls re-echo Rich- 

The moat, (at noon, a silver flood,) an inky chasm, ard ' s moan ' 

yawned wide; "No more, shall armed sentries stand before his dun- 

The drawbridge, like a hov ring hawk, was raised n door | 

o'er pitchy tide: No more) sha ll' shackles chain his feet to a staple in 

He heard the musk-rats scuttle fast along the wall No ^ ^ bread and water be the food md 



of stone, 



drink of him 



But, all was well; he'd have it so; he'd be, there, g Q kind of hearfj SQ faif of ^ and gt(>ut ^ g 

sole alone: < of limb! 

Above him rose the donjon tower; against the sky it 

frowned, "For, soon, shall England's sturdy race know where 
By light and shade, by sun and storm, and frost and ; ts sovereign lies ; 

age, embrowned: And, then, the donjon's slimy vault shall vent its 

peerless prize! 

Below the tower, behind the bridge, he thought he No matter what the ransom be, in silver or in gold, 

spied the keep, — _ _ _ 'Twill all be paid by them who love dear, 'Lion 

That loathsome vault, where, in their pain, brave Heart,' the bold! 

captives sigh and weep; 

He listened; no sounds more he heard except the "Before thee, on thy rightful throne, shall bow thy 

screech-owl's yell, subjects true 

Slow borne, (from yonder, darksome wood,) upon To swear allegiance sweet to thee, ere many moons 

the west wind's swell: be new! 

Then, rest thee, Master, in the cell where swords- 
A teardrop, for one second, shone in boy's clear eye men stand on guard, 

of blue ; And sound be sleep which comes to thee, on filthy 
In a moment more, 'twas dashed to earth, — a pallet hard! 

precious drop of dew; 

"Oh, misjht my Master hear, to-night, my last de- '"Twill only be till Blondin's feet can reach old 

spairing cry! England's shore ! 

Oh, might, from yonder pile, his voice I list in sweet And fleet will be the horses' feet that bring the 

reply!" golden store! 

93 



We'll, never, rest till, safe, at home, our gallant 

King doth stand, 
The bravest, noblest, best-beloved, young soldier in 

our land!" 



THE SKYLARK'S PLEA 

What ails thee, lovely creature 
Behind your gilded bars? 

Why droopest thou thy feathers? 
What is 't thy pleasure mars? 

Why quaffest not the water 
In yonder fountain fair? 

Why tastest not the sweetmeats 
Those silver dishes bear? 

Are not thy friends most tender? 

Is not this house more grand 
Than that in lonely meadow 

Where roves the weasel band? 



Ah! yes! I'm treated kindly; 

I've drink and sup to spare; 
This cage, wherein I languish, 

Is, doubtless, rich and rare; 

But, oh, my little master, 

In spite of all your care, 
I'm, still, a wretched captive 

Who fain would breathe the air 

Of far-off grassy meadow 

Which shelters cosy nest 
Where wifie wee is waiting 

With birdies 'neath her breast; 

The bugs, gnats, worms and beetles, 
(I catch, each early morn,) 

Are sweeter than the dainties 
Your silver cups adorn; 

The water of the brooklet 
Is nectar, cool and sweet; 

The forest breezes fan me, 
When overcome with heat; 

Then, when the sun shines brightly, 

I cleave the ether blue 
And sing to God true praises 

For mercies, old and new; 

I bless the Lord for freedom ; — 



For day's clear, cheerful light; 
I pour my soul out, freely, 
As, up, I wing my flight; 

The God, who gave me being, 
I thank for power to sing; 

For this and all His Goodness 
I chant, when on the wing; 

And, now, my pretty jailer, 
I pray you, ope the door! 

Detain me not, in bondage, 
A prisoner, evermore! 

And, while I mount, each morning, 
Towards yonder rising sun, 

I'll breathe a prayer, in music, 
For what, this day, you've done ! 



NUTTING 

Ceased melodic music ringing, 

For, the singers south are winging, 
Who, in springtime, made our forests, all, so gay; 

But, the jay and blackguard crow 

Call out, now and then, their woe 
To the cheery chickadee in garb of gray: 

The swamp maples, of green color, 

Which, by contrast, seemed, e'en, duller 
In the presence of the tanager, so bright, 

Are, now, clad in scarlet gay 

As the robin's breast, the day 
When he northward flew to fill us with delight: 

Up the chestnuts, growing amber, 

Now, the gleeful chipmonks clamber, 
And the bouncing burs, with sharpest spines em- 
bossed, 

Ev'ry hour, are dropping down 

From some noble chestnut's crown, 
Touched, these autumn eves, by fingers of the frost: 

Many burs are just disclosing 

Sweetest nuts, therein reposing, 
Brown and shining as the silken locks of Jess, 

Who, in knitted jacket red, 

Watches Jack, (up, overhead,) 
Shaking down the nuts she catches in her dress: 

Then, while 'neath the tree a-resting, 
Jack and Jess are gayly jesting, 
By another tree, a second pair we see, — 
Ruddy Rudolph, lithe of limb, 
And a lassie, neat and trim, 



94 



Gath'ring up the nuts knocked down from off the 
tree: 

And the sunlight falls, a-sparkling, 

On Ruth's lustrous eyes, a-darkling, 
Where is couched a shaft from Cupid's bow, so true; 

When young Rudolph, good and wise, 

Looks, the first, with lover's eyes, 
On the girl who glances up with orbs, deep blue; 

And he thinks the burs, a-bounding 

From the boughs above, are wounding 
The big heart that beats so loudly in his breast; 

But, the pain is put to flight 

By those eyes, as dark as night, 
When the maid his palm, so pricked with spines, has 
pressed : 

Oh, ye nutting days, so pleasant, 

Might ye be, forever, present, 
That a million Ruths and Rudolphs, like to these, 

Might find out, before too late, 

The pure love to ne'er abate 
Till the frosts of fifty years hath turned the trees 

To the crimson and the amber, 

Thro' which chipmonks slyly clamber 
On the umbered bough, so soon, to be quite 
bare, — 

When hath waned the harvest moon, 

And the winter comes, too soon, 
With its wailing winds and bleak and biting air ! 

ODE TO THE MOUNTAINS 

Oh, Mountains, dear old Mountains, I love thee 
more and more! 

As seasons come and vanish, I think I thee adore! 

Like steeds that scent the battle and snort to join 
the fray, 

So, pants my soul, O Mountains, to see that dawn- 
ing day 

When I shall look, with rapture, upon thy charm- 
ing face! 

When I shall kneel, in rev'rence, thy fettered feet 
t' embrace! 

When I shall climb thighs sturdy to reach thy am- 
ple breast, 

Where I may lie, in quiet, and dream and write 
and rest! 

When I shall scale thy forehead, and o'er it, joyful, 
lean 

To drink Life's great Elixir, — the mountain 
breezes keen! 

When I shall pluck the blossoms which bloom upon 
thy breast! 



When I shall quaff the waters that leap adown thy 

crest ! 
When I shall bask in sunshine that creeps within 

thy heart ! 
When I shall gaze beneath me to see night-mists 

upstart ! 
When I shall crouch in grottoes beneath thy granite 

gown, 
Whilst, (thunder-showers uprising,) the rain comes 

pouring down! 
When I shall spy the eagles swoop, by thy bosom 

bare, 
Towards yonder, lonely ledges to see how nestlings 

fare ! 
When I shall see the changing of magic light and 

shade, 
And, too, behold the sunset's rare colors o'er thee 

fade! 
O Mountains, dear old Mountains, reserve upon 

your breast 
A place where I may ponder! — where I, at last, 

may rest! 

THE TEACHER 
(Dedicated to my Friend, Miss Minnie V. Reid.) 

She is gentle and modest; — retiring 
As a thrush in the far greenwood fair, 

Ev'ry talent in others admiring, 

Tho' her own may be three-fold more rare! 

She a teacher is, too, true and trusty, 

In a school of a populous town, 
Where she traineth the lads, lithe and lusty, 

With her eyes curbing caitif and clown! 

In the dim, misty mornings, she wendeth 
To the schoolhouse her footsteps, so light ; 

Marking manuscripts, patient, she bendeth 
Till down-speedeth the shades of the night: 

And, tho' worn is she, often, and weary, 

Yet, her voice is melodic and low, 
And her words are as pleasant and cheery 

As the breezes thro' pine-trees which blow: 

Her brown hair, (with its coils neatly twining, 
Like a crown, o'er her pure, placid face,) 

Is, to-day, with soft threads silver shining, 
Adding much to her ladylike grace; 

And an artist is she, more than clever, 
As her blackboards can, all, -witness bear, 

Decked with writing and sketches, which, ever, 
Show her neatness, her skill and her care : 



95 



With it all, she's a true, christian worker; — 
One who holds ev'ry pupil at heart; 

Be he either a toiler or shirker, 

In her thoughts he's an integral part: 

Ah, my Friends, 'tis such sweet, faithful Teachers 
Who are making the men of to-day! 

They do more than the mothers or preachers 
Toward the forming of manhood, I say! 

Pay them, well, for their service afforded! 

Their example of virtue and love 
Shall be gen'rously, some time, rewarded 

In the Kingdom of Light up Above! 

THE OLD QUAY 

Out in the waters, warm and bright, 

Of Alameda Bay, 
Shot the old quay, quite out of sight, 

(Most half a mile, they say:) 

Rude was the mole and built for strength; 

'Twas no fine work of art, — 
Fashioned of wood throughout its length, 

And, well, it bore its part: 

Fair were its piers, at ebbing tide, 

In mossy mantles green, 
Bordered, along the water side, 

(And thousands w T ere there seen,) 

By dripping barnacles as bright 

As mermaids' nut-brown hair, 
When, in Aurora's ruddy light, 

They frisk on boulders bare: 

High were the arches, rough but strong, 

And, far, far down below, 
Flowed the Pacific blue along, 

Lit up by rosy glow, 

Day after day, of sunrise clear 

And sunset, just as fair; 
For, on this peaceful, peerless mere 

A hurricane is rare: 

Well, I remember, when a girl, 

Of scanning sapphire sea, — 
Watching round piles the wavelets curl 

And feeling zephyrs free; — 

Listing the dirge, that never died, 

Of waters, chanted clear, 
As, round the timbers lapped the tide, 

Beneath me, yet, how near! — 



Hearing another plaintive song, 
(The song the seagulls sang,) 

Sang o'er their dear ones, loud and long; 
When sharp the rifles rang, 

Leaving upon the fishy flood 

A thousand feathers white, 
Staining it red with martyrs' blood, 

The blood of seabirds bright: 

Naught cared the fowlers for the game; 

(The flesh was rank and strong;) 
Thus, were the huntsman more to blame 

For doing this great wrong; 

Sport was their aim, their purpose sole, 

In shooting, by the score, 
Flocks of these gulls from off the mole 

Which made my heart ache, sore; 

Child tho' I were, that gruesome sight 
The song I carolled stilled, — 

Chased from my soul the sweet sunlight,— 
With gloom my bosom filled: 

Far have I roamed from yon blue bay, 
With seagull feathers strewn, 

Yet, I remember, well, the lay, — 
The coronach, so lone, 

Sung by the gulls of whitish gray 
O'er them, — their comrades slain, 

Shot, from the wharf, each sunny day, 
By cruel sportsmen vain! 



SWEET PEAS 

Purple and crimson, pink and white, 
Bunch of sweet peas, so fair, 

Know that you fill me with delight 
By your rich colors rare ! — 

By your faint fragrance wafting thro' 
These, my poor rooms, so hot, 

Making me dream of a good dame true 
And her bright garden plot! 

Tho' I have, never, seen her face, 
Never her voice have heard, 

Still, Blooms, you whisper of her grace 
And of her cheerful word! 

Over the far-off hills I roam, 
(Over the hills of blue,) 



96 



Into the pretty, cosy home 
Kept by this good dame true; 

Firmly, I grasp the good dame's hand, — 

Gaze in her gentle eye, — 
Look on her vines, by breezes fanned, 

Trained on the netting high; 

This is the place where you were born, 
Flowers, (purple, pink and white,) 

Laden with dew, this very morn, 
Ere it were scarcely light ! 

True, I'll not chide you, if you fade, — 

If you quite quickly die! 
Surely, you, Flowers, were never made, 

Here, in my vase to lie! 

Better you love the garden wide, 
Where kindred blossoms bloom, 

At the good lady's cottage side, 
Where they the air perfume! 

But, Flowers, I love you, and I'll bring 
Water, cool, fresh, for thee, 

If your sweet fragrance you'll but fling 
Out thro' these rooms for me! 



THE TWO ANGELS 

Night's shadows dun were falling fast, 
As, silently, two angels passed ; 
On pinions bright they glided slow, 
Hand clasped in hand, to realms below: 

They parted as they neared the earth, 
The first to present be at birth 
Of one, — the heir of countless gold 
And parent love to, ne'er, grow cold; 

And, as the gentle mother lay 

On pillows soft, at close of day, 

She saw Life's Angel, clad in white, 

Whose face beamed bright as morning light: 

The other angel, at command 

Of mighty God, drew close at hand 

To him, — an aged man, abed, 

Who turned and saw him near his head; 

And, in his pain, he quaked at sight 
Of Death's dark Angel, at his right, 
Who, clothed in black from head to feet, 
Was one he, long, had feared to meet; 



But, soon, the angel stooped and laid 
His hand upon the man who made 
No effort to avoid him, now, 
For, gleaming on his beauteous brow, 

(Beneath the mask that, then, dropped down,) 

He saw an everlasting crown; 

While on the seraph's face a light; 

Each moment, grew more fair and bright; 

And from his lips he heard a sound 

Which made him to that breast upbound; — 

"You strove for joy! you found but strife! 

You looked for death! you've, now, found Life!' 

God grant Death's Angel for us all 
His sombre mantle may let fall 
To show a robe as bright and white 
As snow, new-fallen, 'neath starlight! 

And, may his greeting, sweet and clear, 
From ev'ry heart remove all fear, 
And make us yearn to reach that Breast 
Where each may find an endless rest! 



FRIENDSHIP'S FLOWER 
(Dedicated to my Friend, Mrs. Charles Clark.) 

The Flower of Friendship, ne'er, decays, 
Which, once, my heart hath cherished, 

But, blossoms on thro' frosty days 
When other blooms have perished: 

Thro' winter's cold or summer's heat, 
From love it springeth lightly, 

Diffusing wide its fragrance sweet, 
And blooming, ever, brightly: 

For six long years, within my heart 
It's bloomed for thee, my Dearie; 

And, tho' we're many miles apart, 
It, still, is bright and cheery! 

In scorching drought or drifting snow 
The floweret seems to flourish, 

A tender love, alone, we know, 
It needs its roots to nourish; 

And this it's, always, found in you, 
My old-time Friend, so cheery, — 

My Needham Neighbor, tried and true, 
In darksome days and dreary! 

And, so, as dawns the coming year, 



97 



The joys, it doth engender, 

Me tempt these lines to write you, Dear, 
Thy life more glad to render! 



RAMBLING THRO' THE WOODS IN 
WINTER 

Ev'ry morn, thro' the short days of winter, 
With my beautiful collie, so gay, 
(Whose brown eyes brightly shine 
As they gaze into mine,) 
I stroll on thro' the woods, bare and gray: 

Bounding, nimbly, along a rude pathway, 

(Fringed with pines, silver birch and oaks brown,) 
Now, and then, he returns, 
Full content when he learns 
That my face wears no trace of a frown: 

Now, he darts, with the speed of an arrow, 
'Long the roadway, rough, frozen and bare ; 

Now, he stops, pricks up ear, 

Scents the air, crisp and clear, 
For, he feels o'er his mistress a care; 



Ah, we wish for the coming of springtime; — 
For the glorious summer, so fair, 

When all Nature is dressed, 

From low vale to hill crest, 
In soft verdure and blossoms, most rare! 

But, methinks, on a cold winter's morning, 
When the hoar-frost gleams bright on the rind, 

When the cock's shrill alarm, 

From some neighboring farm, 
Is borne, clear, to our ears, on the wind, 

'Tis enjoyment most rich to bend footsteps 

Thro' the aisles of some grand, woodland fane, 
Where thick boughs, intertwined, 
Give free vent to the wind, 
As it sings, sighs, or sobs in its pain! 

'Tis devotion, as well as a pleasure, 

To tread, daily, these forest fanes blest, 
Breathing life-giving air, 
While our souls Upward fare 
Towards that Bourne where worn way-farers 
rest! 



And, when satisfied harm is not near us, 
Looks he up in my face, wagging tail, 

Just as much as to say, 

"Let's proceed on our way, 
And, remember, my love never'll fail!" 

On a sudden, he shoots 'mong the bushes, 
Startling blue-jay and wee chickadee, 

Who give out a quick cry, 

As they far away fly 
O'er the woodland that borders the lea: 

Oft, lone crows from their perch on the tree-tops, 
Roused by dog's tapping tread on leaves sere, 

Wildwood echoes awake, 

As, o'er brooklet and lake, 
Off they wheel, flapping wings in great fear; 

And Fritz watches, a moment, their motions, 
Then, rears tail and starts off at fleet pace, 
Casting envious glance, 
(As, with heat, now, he pants,) 
At the brook in its hard, icy case: 

Now, a squirrel, in search of sweet acorns, 
Gambols gracefully by o'er the way; 
While the sun in sky blue, 
(Decked with cloudlets a few,) 
Glints 'mongst boles of the birches, so gray: 



98 



GRANNY SCRIPTURE 

In a spot of clearing, (hardly more 
Than a blacksmith's brawny hands,) 

With dense woods behind and woods before, 
Grandam Scripture's cabin stands; 

Such a lonely looking, little shed, 

With loose, leaky shingles overhead! 

Not a bouncing Bet or kingcup's gold 

Or a black-eyed Susan's grace 
Was there, there, to cheer this woman old 

Of the brown and furrowed face; 
Not a blossom found a cranny, there, 
Round this dreary dwelling cheap and bare! 

Thro' a pasture, (one must cross to get 
From the highway to the hut,) 

I have ridden, in weather fair or wet, 
O'er a road of many a rut, 

Gazing out, across the grasses high, 

To her home beneath the summer sky: 

'Twas on Sunday evenings, long ago, 

That I, oft'nest, here did hie, 
When the western sky was all aglow 

With its red and amber dye, 
And the splendor struck upon the pane 
Of this wretched cottage in the lane: 



As we drew our rein before the door, 

Granny Scripture hobbled out, 
Taking from my palm the roll I bore, — 

(One week's washing 'twas, no doubt;) 
For, those hands, so hard, were used to work, 
And, at seventy, toil they didn't shirk: 

In some cornfield you have smiled to see 

A tall scarecrow proudly stand 
With its garments by the zephyrs free 

Round its wizened figure fanned; 
And, if, once, you'd seen Dame Scripture's frame, 
You'd have sworn it one and all the same: 

But, altho' her form was stiff and bent, 

Yet, her gown of print was clean, 
And an air of decency it lent 

To her person gaunt and lean, 
As she stood before her hovel, there, 
In the summer evening's sultry air; 

And, beyond her figure, thro' the door, 

Whilst she chatted, I could see 
That her crazy, warped, old kitchen floor 

Was as clean as clean could be; 
Tho' no time had she to flowerets rear, 
Yet, no dirt could find a foothold, here! 



A great, object lesson, long to last, 
Was old Grandam Scripture tall, 

And, altho' to her reward she's passed, 
Yet, to-day, I see it all; — 

It is this, — Tho' mean and poor our place, 

Neatness lends to it a perfect grace! 

FORSAKEN 

In a house, at the end of the village, 

(Where, once, King Hospitality reigned,) 

Now, the Ghosts of Despair, Disappointment, 
Ev'ry night, hold mad revel unfeigned; 

At the hearth sits a lone, gray-haired woman, 
To whose face and whose figure doth cling 

The remains of a once, wondrous beauty 

About which minstrels, yet, well might sing; 

And she starts, as she hears at the casement 
The faint sound of the rising night wind, 

For, first thought is that recreant lover 
Hath returned to his breast her to bind: 

Then, she thinks of the chest, in the garret, 
Filled with garments of linen and lace; 



And the white, satin gown, (now, grown saffron,) 
She'd have worn with such dignified grace: 

The tall tamaracks, guarding the gateway, 
Throw their shade o'er the quaint portico 

As they did when he raised the brass knocker, 
In those sweet, happy days, long ago; 

While the pines whisper ceaseless condolence, 
As they stand swinging arms to the sky, 

To their desolate, downcast, old mistress, 
Who, for love, once, would death, e'en, defy: 

But, her heart, (once, so loving and tender,) 

Wears, today, iron armor so stout 
That no eye can behold what she suffers; — 

Can detect what her mind broods about; 

Still, I know that her brain is nigh bursting, 
For, when chilly and raw is the air, 

I have seen her the portico pacing 

With white head to the elements bare; 

And her face, (with its relics of beauty,) 
Gave no sign that she saw passers-by, 

Her blue eye, ('neath long lashes, so graceful,) 
Ever, set on the far-a-way sky: 

May she see, as she scans the high heavens, 
That fair Angel, with bliss-bearing wings, 

Who'll erase from her mind all remembrance 
Of the past and the torture it brings! 



MEETING OF ANTONY AND CLEO- 
PATRA 

Down the Cydnus, in the sunlight, 

Cleopatra's ship went sailing, 
At the stern, her royal banners 

In the truant breezes trailing; — 

Galley's sails of silken purple, 

Boat embossed with gold a-flashing, 

Oars of silver and the rowers 

Keeping time to cymbals clashing; — 

On a couch, (all gold bespangled,) 

Resting on her cushions downy 
Egypt's Queen, (in gown, so gauzy,) 

Fanned by handmaids bright and browny, — 

Fanned with peacock feathers gorgeous, 

As sweet incense rare is floating 
O'er the barge and banks surrounding, 

(Crowded with a people doting:) 



99 



Can you see the dusky princess 
When Mark Antony, so knightly, 

Kneels, in loosely flowing toga, 

Kissing gem-decked fingers lightly? 

See you not the smile bewitching, 
As she speaks her greeting simple? 

Notice you the blushes spreading 
O'er her damask cheek a-dimple? 

Then, her eyes, (those orbs, so lustrous,) 
Gleaming under tresses wreathing; 

Jewelled necklace, on her bosom, 
Flames emitting at her breathing! 



The moon is, still, reflected 

As clearly in thy wave 
As when his heart was lifted 

To Heaven from out the grave! 

Thou smile'st not, now, more sweetly 
On Harvard, fair of fame, 

Than ere she won her riches, 
Her beauty and her name! 

For, ne'er, dost thou distinguish 
Betwixt the rich and poor; 

Thy waters lave, thy breezes 
Kiss autocrat and boor! 



Ev'rything, which mind could muster, 
Ev'ry thing, that art could fashion, 

Cleopatra used to win him, — 

Used to rouse his heart's deep passion: 

On that day, long since departed, 
Little thought the wily Roman 

In the woman, (there, before him,) 
He had found his mightiest foeman! 

Little thought he life and honor 

He should lose for Love and Beauty; 

Little dreamed he for one woman 
He'd forget the World and Duty! 

Since that morning on the Cydnus, 

Cupid more with hearts hath sported; 

And he'll, thus, go on, forever, 
For, he, never, will be thwarted! 

TO THE RIVER CHARLES 

O River, rippling River, 

Which stalks, in majesty, 
By Water town and Waltham, 

Thro' Cambridge, to the sea, — 

Upon whose banks two poets 
Have lived and sung thy praise, 

Oh, let me, now, their follower, 
A song to thee upraise! 

Thou'rt just the same blue river 
That Lowell saw, each day, 

In boyhood's hours, at Elmwood, 
And, too, when old and gray! 

Thou hast not changed, bright river, 
Since, on the bridge, at night, 

There stood that other poet 
A-battling for the right! 



Altho' the smoke of workshops, 

Now, taints thy salty air, 
Altho', instead of orchards, 

Brick blocks thy borders bear, 

Thy wimpling wavelets, gayly, 
Still, sing their prattling song, — 

Sweet songs of love and freedom 
To all men which belong! 

Dear River Charles, thou helpest 

Us all to better be! — 
To wear the same calm visage 

'Midst gloominess or glee! 

And, when we cross thee, River, 
(By the bridge above thy stream,) 

Let all, who look, see, plainly, 
The earnest features gleam 

Of Longfellow, our Poet, 

Who found thine aid, that night, 

When life seemed scarce worth living, 
But, which, thro' thee, grew bright! 

And, as we watch the shimmer 

Of waters, far and wide, 
We'll cast, like him, our troubles 

Beneath thy silver tide! 

HOME, SWEET HOME 

Home, sweet Home! No sweeter music 

Ever rang on listening ears! 
Home, sweet Home! Who hath not heard it, 

Making eyes to swim with tears? 

Whether hut or princely palace, 
Naught it matters; 'tis the same; 

It's the spot that's won the title 
To the mystic, magic name! 



'Tisn't sets of rarest china, 

Grand Old Masters' works of art, 
Gleaming glass or shining silver 

Which so charm each home-sick heart! 

'Tis not floors of inlaid marble, 

Hangings soft of filmy lace; 
What is, then, the great attraction? 

'Tis the patient Mother's Face! 

'Tis the quiet air of comfort 
That the happy homestead bore, 

Where no vile disputes or discords 
Entered at the open door! 

'Tis because round Mother centered 

All that's purest, best in life; 
'Tis because Home, never, harbored 

Greed, profanity or strife! 

There, the fairest, smiling faces 

'Twas no rarity to see; 
There, the mildest, mellow voices 

Made the sweetest melody! 

'Twas a place whose merry inmates 
Wore no strange, dissembling masks; 

'Twas a place where daily duties 
Pleasures were, but, never, tasks! 

'Twas a spot whose mystic motto 
Was the winsome word, "Forbear!" 

Helping all o'er Life's rough rapids 
Into peaceful havens fair! 

It's no wonder we all love it, — 
This sweet shrine of early years! 

It's no wonder we would wet it 
With our truest, tend'rest tears! 

When thro' mem'ry's mazy windings 
Stealeth thoughts of childhood's lot, 

Lo! sound strains of softest music, — 
"Home, sweet Home! Forget-me-not!" 



Their pennons, (fair as lavish lace,) 
E'er furled, but, ever, new: 

Still, on, they come, with steady tread, 

A strangely beauteous band, 
And forward bends each crested head, 

Where lies yon stretch of sand: 

With steps close locked and bayonets bare, 
Their foamy breath they fling, 

And, ever, on the evening air 
Is borne the song they sing: 

No war-cry troll these warriors brave, — 

These- soldiers of the sea; 
No paean rends the welkin's nave, — 

No shout of victory; 

Now, soft and sweet, then, deep and clear, 
They chant a requiem low, — 

A solemn hymn which none can hear 
And higher thoughts not know; 

A plaintive dirge is the surf's sweet song, 

That's sung for ev'ry wave 
Which dashes sandy shore along 

To find, thereon, its grave! 



TO THE WHIPPOWILL 

Oh, thou bird that sleeps, thro' the garish day, 
In the woods, on some boulder brown, — 

Who, in patience, waits to waft wide thy lay, 
When the shades of the night creep down, 

Tho' I've, never, seen thy wide, bristled bill, 
Nor thy breast-band so broad and white, 

It hath been my fate to my heart feel thrill 
With thy notes, at the fall of night! 

When come moonlit eves of the merry May, 
Thro' the forests, so lately brown, 

I, in fancy, hear thy sweet, plaintive lay, 
Tho' compelled to remain in town; 



SONG OF THE SURF 

Like warriors marching on in line, 

(Helms decked with plumes of white,) 

Roll on the billowy waves of brine, 
In twilight's sombre light: 

On, on they come with power and grace, 
In uniforms of blue, 



And, I, once again, am a new-made bride, 
(In a huge, rambling farm-house old,) 

Sitting close to casements which open wide 
Over meadow and wooded wold; 

And I hear, once more, 'mong the lilacs tall 
Thy sad strains, echoed loud and long, 

As I lean my head 'gainst the windowed wall, 
All the better to list thy song; 



IOI 



Ah, I know that insects of gauzy wing 

Are coquetting and dancing, there, 
And I know you seize them while, still, you sing 

That strange, sorrowful, solemn air! 

Oh, pray, say, dear bird, what is't means thy lay, 
When you sing, "Whip-poor-will!" at night? 

£b you bear such grudges, these eves of May, 
That poor Will to the lash is dight? 

Hath he nestlings stole or seduced thy mate, 
That you, still, thro' the gloaming fair, 

(On swift, noiseless wing,) till the hour is late, 
With thy wail fill the scented air ? 

Say ! who is this Will you would have chastised, 

Modest birdling, do tell us, now! 
He a scamp must be to be so despised 

By as bashful a bird as thou! 

THE MAGIC MISTLETOE 

On the eve of each Christmas, so joyous, 
(When the ox, say they, kneels in his stall,) 

When the lights from the famous, old Yule-log 
Shadows cast on the living-room wall, 

Chandeliers are festooned with sprays graceful 
Of the famed, magic mistletoe rare 

That the lads may catch sweethearts beneath them 
And warm kisses imprint on their hair: 

Prithee, list, oh, fond youths and fair maidens, 
After plighting your troth 'neath the bough, 

To the tale of yon beauteous garland 

Drooping low o'er you, sealing your vow! 



In the days of the Celts, rude but sturdy, 
Who the Island of Britain controlled, 

Ere the eager, victorious legions, 

Under Caesar, that shore did behold, — 

When these warriors, so savage and warlike, 
In their chariots, (drawn by trained steeds,) 

Deadly fear to the souls of the Romans 
Introduced by the dint of brave deeds, 

There abode in oak woods, esteemed sacred, 

Which were watered by clear, running streams, 

Scores of powerful priests called, "The Druids," 
Whose religion most cruel, now, seems: 

Far within those green groves were enclosures 
Which were circled by walls of rough stone, 



And, amid these huge, circular spaces 
Were great altars, still, standing alone; 

On these altars, (we moderns term cromlechs,) 

Human victims were offered up, oft, 
To appease their false gods of religion, 

Who, the Celts thought, frowned down from 
aloft ; 

In those groves British boys were instructed 
By the priests, (sole preceptors of youth,) 

And remained in the depths of the forest, 
For long years, seeking wisdom and truth; 

These poor pupils were taught by their teachers 
That the oak God loved best of all trees, 

And whatever was found growing on it 

Came from Heaven, His loved people to please; 

So, whenever the mistletoe berries 

Were found clust'ring an oak-tree around, 

They especially sacred were looked on 
By the person by whom they were found ; 

In the month we call March, when the Britons 
Their New Year used to celebrate bright, 

Was the day set to seek the plant holy 
With great pomp and druidical rite; 

A procession, in splendor and grandeur, 
Neared the oak, bearing green parasite, 

When a priest, (in his spotless, white vestments,) 
Climbed the tree in the woodland's dim light; 

With a knife, made of gold, cut he branchlet 
Which was caught by another priest wise, 

Holding high the loose folds of his tunic 
To receive the fair mistletoe prize; 

So revered was the plant parasitic, 

'Twas considered too holy, by far, 
To be touched but by priests' hallowed garments; 

(Its wax berries their fingers might mar;) 



Those dark years superstitious are ended, 
Yet, in these most enlightened of days, 

There remains a slight relic barbaric 

Of the Druids' strange customs and ways, 

When we hang over lintel and mantel 

The uncommon, and mystical vine, 
r (To which, still, is ascribed latent forces,) 
The rare mistletoe, true lovers' sign. 
102 



SNOWFLAKES 

They come from the clouds, gray and gloomy; 
They come when the sun's hid his face; 
In thick, serried array, 
They advance on their way 
Towards the earth, at a quickened pace: 

At sound of that clarion bugle, 

(The voice of the shrilly North Wind,) 
They keep step to the note, 
As they gracefully float 
Thro' the atmosphere, chill, unkind: 

Their march, altho' noiseless, is steady; 
Their duty they know and it do, 
Deep enshrouding the ground, 
(Tho' in silence profound,) 
With an ermine-like mantle new: 

They yield to but few forces mighty; 

Invincible, ever, they stand; 
They surrender, alone, 
To two powers, well-known, — 

The South Wind and the Sun God bland 

And, so, when Apollo, benignly, 
The clouds parts asunder, in glee, 

Ev'ry snowflake's face gleams; 

Full of joy each one seems 
To retreat from a foe such as he; 

For, mildness and love melt their armor 
As fire does bright silver and gold, 
And their phalanxes white, 
Fast, fade out in the light 
That is shed by great Helius bold ! 



LINES TO NIGHT 



The world's great work no more's pressing; 

All the duties of day are o'er; 
The Peace of the Lord, in blessing, 

Crowns the dwellers of sea and shore; 

And care and coil, which encumber, 

Fold their wings, now that's done the day, 

Like swifts sinking down to slumber 
After chatt'ring their noisy lay! 

While starlight brightly is beaming, 
And Diana bends out her bow, 

I sit in my chair a-dreaming 
Of the loved ones of long ago: 

I see a baby a-dancing 

In the arms of his mother fair, 
Her eyes in his face a-glancing 

As she kisses his golden hair; 

His arms extending, the darling 

Lisps, "Aunt Dody!" so sweet to me, 

His eyes, (bright as those of the starling,) 
Brimming over with childish glee ! 

I spy, once more, other faces 

Bearing not any sign of years 
Nor showing the slightest traces 

Of life's tumult or toil or tears; 

And, then, I hear, (softly stealing,) 
The sweet sound of a boyish voice 

Which falls on mine ear with healing, 
As it warbles a player's choice ; 

I see the player quite clearly, 

His blue eyes gently closed to hear 

The lad whom he loves too dearly, 
Being restless without him near! 



The night hath come, and are creeping 
Shadows dark o'er this earth of ours 

To rest tired eyes while sleeping 

Thro' the long, silent, midnight hours: 



I breathe, again, mountain breezes 
Wafted in thro' my cottage door; 

I list to the strain which pleases, 
And I, also, am young, once more ! 



The night, so calm and so fitting 
To bring rest to the weary brain, — 

To set ev'ry thought a-flitting 

Which bears grief in its troubled train! 



Dear Night, (dark robes, ever, wearing, 
Clasped by clusters of many a star,) 

A Herald art thou a-bearing 

Voices sweet from my Friends afar! 



The gale, which shrilly hath shouted 
Thro' the treetops, hath sunk to rest; 

The surge, (that, all day, hath spouted,) 
Lies asleep on old Neptune's breast! 



I'm glad you, Night, come so often 

With fond mem'ries my heart to twine,- 

All pains in my breast to soften 

With the scenes of the auld lang syne! 



103 



WHERE TO FIND GOD 

By the listening ear the Almighty's Voice 

Is as plainly heard, today, 
As from out the Bush His Tones Moses knew, 

In those ages passed away ! 

In the thunder's roar and the wintry blast, 

In Niagara's whirlpool white, 
In the seething surf of old ocean grand 

We may hear His Voice of Might! 

In the stirring song of the shy sky-lark, 

In the coo of turtle-dove, 
In the cheerful chirp of the katydid 

All may list His Words of Love! 

By observant eyes His transcendent Smile 

May be seen, today, as clear 
As on Tabor's height, in those olden days, 

It illumed Christ's face, so dear! 

In the azure sky, in the star-lit dome, 

In Diana's silvern beams, 
In the setting sun, ('mong clouds opaline,) 

God's fair Face with glory gleams! 

In the rose that low hangs its blushing face, 
(While its cheek soft zephyrs woo,) 

In the lily holding its chalice up 
To be filled with purest dew, — 

In the limpid mirror of mountain lake, 

(Which reflects the hills around,) 
In the breezy breath of the brawling brook 

The Lord's smiles and words abound! 

To the eye which sees and the ear which hears 

Our Creator Good is near, 
Utt'ring words of peace, deepest love, and truth, 

Ev'ry day, throughout the year! 

SONNET TO A SKELETON 

That rattling structure, hanging there, 
Was clad, of yore, in garments rare; — 
Could walk and work, could think and love, 
And worship Him, — its God, Above! 

Within that skull, (now, bleached and white,) 
Once, dwelt a brain of wondrous might, — 
A mechanism scarce understood 
By any, e'en, the wise and good! 

Inside its portal, once, there swung 
That organ strange, (we call the tongue,) 



Which had the power to move to tears, 
To rouse to ire, relieve from fears! 

Where, now, those orbits glare at me, 
A pair of eyes, erst, danced in glee, 
Or wept, maybe, at others' woe; 
We can not tell; none, now, can know! 

Those dangling feet, (of old, encased 
In shoon or sandal,) ran in haste, 
Perchance, some foe despised to save 
Who, now, lies peaceful in his grave! 

These hands, which all are fain to shun, 
Earth's noblest work, may be, have done ; 
And glad we'd, once, have been had they 
But on our heads in blessing lay! 

O bony Skeleton, so bare, 
E'en clothed in tissues pure and fair, 
We, even, then, would flinch to be 
In contact close, I swear, with thee! 

Tho' roses red should blush, to-day, 
Where cheek bones bare hold ghoulish sway; 
Tho' orbs of blue should sparkle bright 
From out those caverns, deep and white; — 

Tho' feet should dance, and hands should play, 
And tongue should sing a roundelay, 
And, with the song the heart should beat 
In cadence to the music sweet, 

One thing would, still, be lacking, yet, 
Which, Human Framework, you forget, — 
The Mind, the Soul, we can not see, 
Enthroned within thy breast must be! 

The Mind, which ev'ry act directs 
And nothing for thy good neglects; 
The Soul, that's given to, ne'er, decay, — 
Which marks the man from yonder clay! 



INSTINCT 

The beaver builds his dam of sapling trees, 

On summer nights, when softly soughs the breeze; 

The bee her waxen cell with honey fills, 

In fields and pastures fair, 

While balmy is the air, 
And mellow sunshine gilds the distant hills : 

The fire-bird weaves her purse-like, pensile nest, 
And fastens it where safe her young may rest 



104 



On bending bough, while clust'ring leaves above, 

A-rustling in the wind, 

The baby birds remind 
Of lullabies their mother sings in love : 



Before a flake hath dimmed the sapphire sky? 

Or how the petrel sees 

The storm, from which he flees, 
While, yet, the sun shines, clear and bright, on high? 



The mole constructs her gall'ries 'neath the ground, 
Those winding ways where noxious grubs abound, 
The bed for brood, (which, once a year, is born,) 

Made soft with grasses warm, 

Where each wee, helpless form 
Sleeps, safe from foes, from early dusk till dawn: 

The caterpillar wraps him in his shroud, 
Then, glues it to a branch, while leaden cloud 
Gives place, some morn, to paradise-like spring; 

And, then, the loathsome worm, 

(Now, past his earthly term,) 
Is seen a gorgeous butterfly, a-wing: 

Each autumn, birds of passage soar on high, 

When harvested are barley, corn and rye, 

To wing their way to southern climes more fair, 

Where spicy zephyrs blow, 

And, 'stead of chilling snow, 
Rare roses fill with fragrance sweet the air: 

Far off, on ocean's ever heaving breast, 
The stormy petrels skim the curling crest, 
And warn the sailors of the tempest near 

By flocking vessels nigh 

And utt'ring loud a cry, 
As tho' each deemed himself a feathered seer: 

When winter's reign, so stern, is almost o'er, 
(Tho' March on blaring bugles, yet, doth roar,) 
The trees and shrubs begin to forth push buds, 

Incased in shining brown, 

With linings soft of down, 
Quite sure that Spring is riding on the floods: 

Dear Reader, have you ever given thought 

To hang-bird, bee or mole which God hath taught 

To fabricate, (in ways for each the best,) 

A home where offsprings dear 

Securely it may rear, 
While summer suns in splendor paint the west? 

Hast wondered at the instinct, strange to see, 

In caterpillar or the budding tree, 

Which tells the first in snug cocoon to lie, — 

The last to forth put leaves, 

(And, seldom, it deceives,) 
Tho' wailing winds, ofttimes, it doth defy? 

Hast marvelled how it is that birds can know 
When it is time to leave the line of snow, 



To me 'tis plain that God, (who made them all, 
Each living, earthly creature, great, or small,) 
Implanted in the breast of ev'ry one 

A monitor of might 

To teach him wrong from right 
And guide him safely on till life is done! 



SPONDULYX 

His old suit was soiled and shabby, 

Of a texture thin and cheap, 
And his coat hung loose and flabby 

From his shoulders' drooping sweep; 

On his grizzled locks dishevelled 
Sat a hat of straw, once white, 

Thro' whose rents the breezes revelled 
In their mazy dances light; 

Down his tangled beard flowed, streaming, 

A tobacco rivulet; 
And two faded eyes gazed, beaming, 

'Neath their bushy brows that met 

O'er a nose which much resembled 
The bald eagle's beak so strong, 

And his tongue, it never trembled 
In its jabber harsh and long; 

A small sack of greasy leather 

In his smutty hands he bore, 
Trudging on, in ev'ry weather, 

Thro' the streets, from door to door, 

Begging leave to scissors sharpen 

Or a razor's blade to hone, 
And I've, often, paused to hearken 

To his prating words and tone, 

As he sat him down, a-sighing, 

Pulling out his pate a hair, 
(Ev'ry burnished blade a-trying,) 

Till his scalp was nearly bare; 

Old Spondulyx men had dubbed him, 

And the nickname did he hear 
Till the epithet appalled him, 

Tho' he simple seemed and queer; 



105 



Glad was he if pennies fifty 

In his purse he found, at night, 
Sleeping sound as tradesmen thrifty 

Till the dawn of rosy light, 

"Trusting," so said he, "to-morrow, 

Half a dollar I may earn 
That of none I'll have to borrow 

To the kitchen fire make burn!" 

Old Spondulyx, never, lazy 

Could they call you, e'en, in jest! 

Poor Spondulyx, queer and crazy, 
Slack and slovenly, at best, 

All thy trials, now, are over! 

All thy toiling, too, is done! 
Thou, no longer, art a rover 

Strolling on from sun to sun! 

He, who heedeth when a sparrow 

Falls from out the sky of blue, 
He a bed hath given thee, narrow, 

'Neath the stars and falling dew! 

MEMORIES 

As my eyelids droop, ere to sleep I fall, 

The old farmhouse, girt by its rock-built wall, 

I can plainly see, as in by-gone days, 

When I thought it theme for a poet's lays; 

I can see the kitchen with ceiling low 

And its clean-swept hearth in the sunset glow; 

I can hear the clock, on the well-warped floor, 

Ringing out its harmony, evermore; 

I, again, in rev'ry, on settle sit, 

(Built beside the door, in a niche to fit,) 

And, once more, I smell the strong perfume sweet 

Of the lilacs, near to my falt'ring feet, 

As I tread the doorstone, o'ergrown with moss, 

Over which an elm-tree's huge branches toss; 

Then, I laugh aloud at the colt, new-born, 

On the turf a-f risking, one pleasant morn; 

Merely head and legs did he look to me, 

Gamb'ling round and round 'neath yon spreading 

tree, 
(In the dooryard's centre,) a noble elm, 
Like a giant coiffed in his plumed helm; 
For a hundred years, silent sentinel, 
The fair homestead old it hath guarded well; 
On the seat, that circles its massy bole, 
Each young heir hath sat as a kiss he stole 
From the winsome lass that he made his wife, 
Who, in turn, hath mistress been, here, for life: 
The rough, rambling barn, with its hay-mows wide, 
Is from farmhouse old but an ample stride; 



On its western side, thro' a postern door 

I have watched the sheep, like a whirlwind, pour, 

When from off the hills, (their loved pastures 

green,) 
They'd been driven by dogs or a fox, I ween: 
In the times of drought, when the well went dry, 
To the spring, below, did we young folks hie, 
With unfeigning hearts, at the close of day, 
Leading down to drink ev'ry faithful bay: 
In the meadow, north of the dwelling neat, 
I can see the mower, with movement fleet, 
From his seat spring down as he caught in cap 
Rabbit wild he laid on my girlish lap, — 
A poor, trembling creature I, soon, set free 
To leap off, in joy, o'er the grassy lea: 
I remember days when the fields were sweet 
With long swaths of hay 'neath the reapers' feet; — 
When the dome above, so deep blue and bright, 
Quickly grew as black as the darkest night; — 
When the thunder rolled and the lightning played, 
And, for fear of rain, we were all dismayed ; 
It was, then, to aid the haymakers tanned 
That the women, all, to the rescue banned; 
Oh, how hot and tired and dusty, too, 
Were we all when th' arduous toil was thro' ! 
But, a wash in the spring's clear water cool 
Made us fresh as nymphs of the reedy pool, 
Quite prepared to go for the cows, at night, 
Which came shaking their bells in the dusky light: 



The old farmhouse white, with its lilacs fair, 
(Where, in spring, the whippowills sad repair,) 
To the hands of strangers, long since, hath passed, 
And I wonder, oft, if the chambers vast, 
Now, resound to the tread of the phantom feet 
Of the sires and sons and their consorts sweet, 
Who, for generations, held, here, mild sway, 
In a plain, tho' quite independent, way; 
And I, sometimes, wonder, (if I could look 
On the bubbling spring and the babbling brook,) 
If I'd these find mourning the changes, there, 
In the mansion old 'neath the elm-tree fair; 
Yes, they mourn, I think, and in song bemoan 
Ev'ry dear, old friend who hath left them lone; 
But, I'm sure the elm, with his feath'ry crest, 
Will the strangers shield, when they sink to rest, 
Murm'ring soft and low when the evening breeze 
Plays a requiem sad on his thousand keys; 
But, in storms, low-bending his helmed head, 
As he groans aloud for his long-lost dead : 



Ancient Elm, may long, you the homestead shield 



1 06 



- 



From the blasts fierce blowing o'er fell and field! 
And, as gray you grow with the clinging moss, 
And, as higher and wider your limbs you toss, 
Oh, forget not those of your kith and kin 
Who to Heaven's Sweet Peace, now, have entered 
in! 



HOW A SPIDER MADE HISTORY 

Crouching upon his heap of straw, 

Down in a dungeon dreary, 
Smilingly, once, a prisoner saw, 

Sad as he lay and weary, 

There, in his cell's cold corner bare, 

Spinning her web of labor, 
What to his eyes was, oh, how fair! 

Just a wee, spider neighbor! 

Watching for her, each dawning day, 

Soon, the poor captive pining 
Learned that Miss Spider, always, lay 

Close in her house if shining 

Were not the weather and quite warm ; 

So, as he her watched purely, 
In a short time, a frost or storm 

He could predict most surely: 

Now, whilst Dis Jonval, in his cell, 

Weather signs closely studied, 
O'er the wide swamp-lands, sudden, fell 

Troops of the French; but, flooded, 

Soon, were these lands by stronger foes, 
Still, than the famed French Army; 

Over the crops, arranged in rows, 
Rushed blue, old Ocean balmy; 

Cut were the dykes by Dutchmen brave, 

Hoping in waters foaming 
Frenchmen would find an instant grave 

Who o'er their fields were roaming: 

Pichegru counted on the cold ; — 
Looked for the dykes, this season, 

Solid as stone, the sea to hold; 
But, for the strangest reason, 

Summer, still, lingered o'er the land, 
When it should be, e'en, freezing; 

Naught but retreat was left his band, 
Tho' it were so unpleasing: 

News of the Frenchmen's sorry plight 
Learned the old prison keeper, 



And, when he made his rounds, that night, 
Brusquely he roused the sleeper, 

Telling him Frenchmen must retreat, 
Soon, o'er the Dutch Land border, — 

Fly, with the wings of eagles fleet, 
Homeward, in dire disorder: 

Quickly, Dis Jonval upward rose; 

After a bit reflecting, 
Wrote he a note in simple prose, 

Which, smiling, unsuspecting, 

Took the old turnkey, sending it 

Off to the Frenchman Leader, 
Finding him sad, but, full of grit, 

As knows so well my reader; 

Pichegru read the lines which told, 

Taught by a spider tiny, 
He, in his cell, was sure the cold 

Soon, would make ice, so shiny; 

Pichegru heeded well his friend; 

Patiently he awaited, 
And, ere a week was at its end, 

Down fell the frost belated; 

Over the swamps, (with ice grown hard,) 

Over the richest regions, 
Up to old Utrecht's Gates, ill-starred, 

Marched France's laughing legions! 

Yes, Utrecht fell, and all because 

Wisely one leader harkened, — 
Harked to his friend and a spider's laws 

Learned in a dungeon darkened! 



GODSPEED 

On a gorgeous day, in autumn, 
When the leaves began to turn, 

And the goldenrod and aster 

Dreamed beside the smiling burn, — 

When the sky was blue and cloudless, — 

When the air, so cool, distilled 
That sweet, restful, peaceful quiet 

Which has, always, ennui stilled, 

That a band of friends had gathered 

At the Hermit Poet's home, — 
In the garden were assembled, 

'Neath high heaven's wide-spreading dome; 



107 



By hydrangea bush, (the poet, 
Once, so loved,) a table stood, 

On which gentians, (fav'rite flowers 
Of the modest Quaker good,) 

Loving lay, while chairs and benches 
Round the twain, in love, were placed, 

Where were seated friends devoted 
Of the Singer peaceful-faced; 

Many Quakers there were present, 
(Some in sober garb,) beside 

A large circle of acquaintance 
Of beliefs diversely wide; 

There was no display of sadness ; 

Naught of grief or woe was there 
For the fullness, richness, sweetness 

Of that life so wondrous rare; — 



Just the sense of loss at missing 
Gentle words and tender ways 

Of the one who, then, was singing, 
Up Above, his sweetest lays; 

There was neither prayer or music; 

Whoso willed rose up and spoke 
Recollections, kind and loving, 

Which the thought of him awoke; 

Then, to crown the simple service, 
A good friend, by true love led, 

Whittier's best and grandest poem, — 
"The Eternal Goodness," read; 

That was all, but, 'mong those gathered 
There were none who were not glad 

They'd a chance to pay devotion 
To the, once, bare-footed lad 

Who had driven his cows to pasture 
As he read from Nature's Book; 

Who had found his purest pleasure 
Culling blossoms by the brook, 

As he listened to the stories 

That the smiling streamlet sung, 

Standing, there, beneath the willows 
Which above the brooklet hung; — 

Wondrous tales he set to music, 
As he sowed the seed, at dawn; — 

As he raked the hay in windrows, 
In the sultry, summer morn: 

Whose great heart o'erflowed with kindness 



For the helpless and the weak; 

Who was, ever, grandly striving 

Highest good for man to seek; 

But, who, then, the path was treading 
Which to Life and Joy doth lead, 

And to which these friends, so earnest, 
Came to bid the Bard, "Godspeed!" 

What a joyous one, — that service, 

For the Poet, Gone Before, 
With whom hoped they, soon, to cluster 

Round the God they all adore! 



THE DANCE OF DEATH 

Black clouds, (like demons, cloaked and cowled,) 

Were scudding 'cross the sky; 
Along the moor the night-wind howled, 

As, fast, he scampered by: 

From out the storm-clouds, dark and dun, 

The moon revealed Her Grace 
For one short second, just in fun, 

Then, hid her laughing face; 

But, soon, the night-wind played a tune, 

So clear and weird and sweet, 
That ev'ry demon, 'round the moon, 

Danced off his Love to greet; 

Diane, entranced, now, wore a smile, — 

The rarest ever seen, 
For, (far below her, mile on mile,) 

Upon the moorland green, 

The fallen leaves, like spirits lithe, 

Bowed low in loved quadrille, 
Or, danced a stirring hornpipe blithe 

Beside the foaming ghyll; 

Each cavalier was gayly dressed 

In amber, bronze or gold; 
Each lady wore her gown, — the best, 

Rich red in sweeping fold; 

They knew to-night would be the last, 

On earth, they'd ever dance, 
But, still, they bowed before the blast, 

And joy lit up each glance ; 

The louder piped the night-wind by, 

Along the meadow's breast, 
The faster seemed the leaves to fly 

On towards their endless rest: 
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When morning light broke bright and clear, 

Upon the moorland wide, 
There, lay the leaves, (bent, brown and sere,) 

Just where they drooped and died; 

No longer gleamed red doublets bright 

In graceful, shining fold, 
For, dull grew gowns when ebbed the light 

From out each heart of gold! 

How glad, my Friends, should you and I 

Be when of this we think, — 
We mortals, when we come to die 

And stand on Jordan's brink, 

The clothes we wear, howe'er so bright, 
We'll change for those more fair, 

And crowns to never fade or blight 
In Heaven's enchanting air! 

Then, like the leaves, let's whirl along 

And dance our Dance of Death, 
With hearts more glad, more full of song, 

Till sped is latest breath! 

WATCH 

'Twas a rambling, country farmhouse 

O'er which wind and storm had swept, 
And the elms, (that overhung it,) 

Constant vigil o'er it kept; — 
In the winter, when the sunset 

Glazed the western panes with gold; — 
In the summer, when the shingles 

Wore a mantle green of mould; — 

In the spring, when wooing swallows 

Glued their nests to chimneys square; — 
In the autumn, when the asters 

Made the meads with azure fair: 
And, within, thro' ev'ry season, 

Whether sun or storm held sway, 
It was, always, sunny weather, 

Always, gladsome, merry May: 

There, at peace with God and mortals, 

Dwelt the parson and his wife, 
Like two woodland pigeons joyous 

Mated happily for life; 
And, behind dear Aunty Adams, 

(At her housework, here and there,) 
Like a shadow followed closely 

Watch, a cur of coarse, black hair: 

Now, one springtime, on a visit 
To the parsonage repaired 



One of old Aunt Charlotte's sisters 
With two grandsons sunny-haired; 

Thro' the long, bright days, the children 
Romped, for hours, with Watch, so true, 

'Neath the elms where sang the robins, 
Or by brooks where flags waved blue : 

Then, there came the time, when, sadly, 

They must leave this pleasant place; — 
They must hie to city quarters, 

And forlorn grew each young face; 
But, (the morning of departure,) 

Kind Aunt Charlotte all made gay, 
For, to John and little Willie 

Gave she dear, old Watch away ! 

Many miles, in car and carriage, 

Rode the children, in delight, 
Reaching not their home in Worcester 

Till the sun had set in night; 
Then, their tired eyes in slumber 

Closed till daylight broke, at last, 
When they went to seek the playmate 

In the yard they'd tied so fast: 

Gone was Watch, and not rewarded 

Was the careful search they made 
In the house, the street, the garden, 

'Till the twilight hour did fade; 
And the two gay, gold-haired urchins 

Went to bed with heavy eyes 
At the thought they'd lost, forever, 

Him they deemed a perfect prize: 



Some six Sundays after losing, 

Dear, old Watch, Aunt Charlotte lay 
Snug in bed, at early morning, 

Just before the peep of day, 
And she thought she heard a whining, 

On the porch, by shuttered door, 
So, she slipped her feet in slippers, 

For, no cry could she ignore: 

When she reached the long piazza, 

There, she saw, as dawned the light, 
Dear, old Watch, upon the door-mat, 

In a sorry, sickening plight; 
Ev'ry paw was torn and bleeding; 

Like a phantom dog he seemed, 
Tho' he wagged his tail in welcome, 

And his eyes with gladness gleamed; 

Almost starved lay he before her, 
With not strength enough to rise, 



iog 



Lapping feebly, tho', her fingers, 

Gazing up with glassy eyes; 
Like a baby Auntie raised him 

In her kind, protecting arms, 
Bore him gently to the kitchen, 

And, with healing, home-brewed balms, 

Bound his wounded feet in linen ; — 

Gave him draughts of milk, so sweet, 
Making him a couch, most downy, 

'Neath the southern window-seat; 
And her tender eyes grew tearful, 

As she patted Watch's head, 
Telling him he'd stay, forever, 

With her, there, till one lay dead ; 

For, she'd learned, at last, how faithful 

Poor old Watch's heart must be 
When he'd travel, footsore, weary, 

Starved and sick, o'er vale and lea, 
For six weeks, in storm and sunshine, 

That his mistress he might find! 
Surely, she would shield him, always, 

Grew he feeble, deaf or blind! 



VISIT OF THE WOODPECKER 

A woodpecker downy comes, here, ev'ry day, — 

A woodpecker, hearty and hardy, 
In black and white jacket and vest whitish gray, 
A cap on his nape of a bright scarlet gay, 

And, ne'er of a morn, is he tardy: 

He comes, from afar in the dark forest old, 
On wings which are sturdy and steady, 
And, many a morn, thro' the winter so cold, 
The bluejay, (that robber so ruthless and bold,) 
To fight him seems willing and ready: 

He comes for the fat I have tied to a tree, 
(A tidbit, this weather, that's frozen,) 
A morsel the junco and wee chickadee 
And, even, the rude robber bluejay are free 
To take any time that is chosen: 

And, there, on the tree's rugged bark doth he cling, 

Propped up by each rigid, tail feather, 
While, swiftly, to left and to right, doth he fling 
His chisel-like bill from which, never, doth ring 
A note, this severe, wintry weather: 



Years passed by, and, there, in comfort, 

Lived the loving, dear, old dog; — 
In the summer days, a-sleeping 

By the threshold, like a log; — 
In the winter time, a-lying, 

Close, the clean-swept hearth beside, 
Dreaming of some youthful frolic 

On the grassy moorland wide; 

Tho' his jaws grew, well-nigh, toothless, 

Tho' he quaked in ev'ry limb, 
Tho' his bark was hoarse and husky, 

Tho' his eyes grew dull and dim, 
Yet, he judged it, still, his duty 

Near to stay to loved household, — 
Still, to guard his gentle mistress, 

Who, like him, was growing old: 

But, one windy night, in autumn, 

When the gale the leaves whirled high, 
Setting ev'ry one a-dancing 

Towards the gloomy, leaden sky, 
Dear, old Watch's soul was loosened 

From the ills, (which sore him pressed,) 
And, he, now, lies 'neath the elm-trees, 

With the turf above his breast! 



But, often, my woodpecker downy, so dear, 

(To pay for the suet him given,) 
Hangs, long, to the tree, in the air sharp and clear, 
To hunt for the larvae of insects I fear 

Are hid in the bark, rough and riven: 

And, with him comes, daily, his wee, modest mate, 
(No bright scarlet cap her adorning;) 

She wears a plain, black one, for, ah! 'tis her fate; 

But, fully contented is she with her state, 
And, so, up betimes, each cold morning, 

In yonder, decayed, hollow, gray, forest tree, 

(Where they have the season been spending,) 
She lets all her housework, so arduous, be, 
And comes with her handsome, young husband to 
me 
To get the light lunch I am lending: 

No song of their gratitude trill they, today, 
But, soon, in the spring which is coming, 
I'm sure I shall hear downy woodpecker gray 
In yon, darksome forest, so far, far away, 
On resonant branches a-drumming: 

"And, why," do you ask, "does he drum, all day 
long, 
When warm grows the weather and cheerful?" 
Because, little Boys, 'tis the woodpecker's song; 



_ 



And, don't, oh, I pray you, him do any wrong! 
Of that I am, always, quite fearful! 

Well, there, in the hole he has chiseled away, 

(In the bole of the tree where he's drumming,) 
The nest you may find of the woodpecker gray, 
And, hov'ring upon it, his modest mate, gay 
Because of the babes that are coming! 

And thousands of insects, which injure the trees, 

Will catch the dear woodpecker downy 
To feed the six babes, soon, to lie at their ease 
'Neath wings of their mother, when soft is the 
breeze, 
At home in the tree-trunk so browny! 

THE BROOK 



Above me firs moaned sadly 
To see, as sank the day, 

A huntsman bold, 

Within the wold, 
A stag of beauty slay: 

I peeped thro' ferny coverts; 
I glanced 'twixt banks of green 

Where blue-flags nod 

'Bove boggy sod, 
And pitcher-plants are seen: 

Then, down a slope I sparkled 

And dimpled in the sun ; 

Thro' woods I crept 

"Where shadows slept; 

Next, like a modest nun, 



On top of yonder mountain, 
With night-cap gleaming white 
It doffs, in spring, 
When throstles sing, 
I, first, saw earth's loved light: 



I wandered 'long a valley 
'Mong hazy hills which lay, 
Where, at my feet, 
A lake lay, meet 
To mirror man or fay; 



Adown the rocks I gamboled, 
(A silver ribbon bright,) 
A-babbling loud, 
And feeling proud 
I'd run from such a height: 

I rolled the pebbles roughly; — 
A brawling ditty sang; 
O'er rocks I roared 
Which gashed and gored 
My form, while thunders rang: 

O'er dizzy cliffs I tumbled 
With foaming, flashing tide 

Spread like a veil 

Of a bride, so pale, 
The crag's dark face to hide; 

Ana, just before the gloaming, 
When skies were rosy red, 

In sunset rays 

My filmy haze 
Wore rainbow hues, 'tis said: 

And, soon, I smiled at wagtails, 
Who, 'mong my pebbles gray, 

Tripped on to snatch 

Of gnats a batch, 
Ere died the gorgeous day: 



Here, in its peaceful bosom, 
Fore'er to rest, I bide, 

And stars, at night, 

A twinkling light 
Shed o'er my glassy tide: 

At morn, comes sunlight glancing 
To kiss my shining breast; 

And swallows cry, 

As o'er they fly, 
But, never, stop to rest: 

At times, from sombre cloudlets 
The rain comes pouring down, 

And pelts my face 

Without the grace 
Of noticing my frown; 

But, soon, the sun glints shyly 
From out the brightening sky; 
My gown's dull hue 
Grows bright and blue 
At the smile of God, on High: 

I cannot be unhappy, 

Tho', sometimes, it is true, 

I'd dance, once more, 

On the shingly floor 
Of far-off mountain blue! 



MISS MYERS 

Beside the Charles's sedgy shore, 
Hard by the railroad track, 

Lived one, on earth, I'll see no more, 
Tho' I could turn me back 

To when that I, a child of ten, 
With hair in tangled curls, 

Was taught by her to wield the pen, 
With other boys and girls: 

Within a rose-wreathed cottage small, 
(Embosomed 'mongst the trees,) 

Throughout whose cosy, entrance hall, 
With perfume, swept the breeze, 

There dwelt with her a mother old, 

A younger sister dear, 
And brother, gay Leander bold, 

She succored, many a year: 

Here, 'neath the trees, at close of day, 
When done were duties all, 

She watched the sprite in hodden gray 
Curl out the smoke-stack tall 



And, kissing me and little mate, 
She bade us both goodnight, 

A-standing at the garden-gate 
To watch us out of sight: 

I see her, now, with calm, pale face, 
And manners sweet and mild, — 

A queen of gentleness and grace, — 
Beloved by ev'ry child! 

In ruins, now, the cottage lies; 

Its inmates, all, have fled ; 
Beneath the dome of Bluer Skies 

Live they whom we call dead! 

And, 'mong the blessed seraph band, 
(I hope, some day, to meet,) 

Miss Myers sweet will, surely, stand 
Her pupil loved to greet; — 

Not bidding me a fond goodnight, 

As in those days gone by, 
But, wishing me a welcome bright, 

At the Gateway of the Sky! 

SONG OF THE VIOLET 



Of engine strong which drew the train 

The iron rails along, 
A-trolling out, in sun or rain, 

Its rumbling, rattling song: 

At night, when thro' the dark she peered, 

On river's farther shore, 
She saw the street-lights, wan and weird, 

Her sleepy eyes before: 

But, when the faultless June came round 

With bud and bird and bee, 
How red with fruit gleamed grassy ground 

Beneath her cherry tree! 

And, then, it was my chum and I 

Were asked to supper, there, — 
The lovely, luscious fruit to try 

And other dainties rare: 



Along the country roadways, 
With cinq-foil carpet green, 

Where May-day sunshine glances, 
The violet is seen: 

She loves the woodland borders, — 
A shelter from the storm; 

She hides 'mong leaflets withered 
To keep her snug and warm: 

And, tho' she wears the purple, 
(Because of royal race,) 

She bears her robes with meekness, 
And droops her modest face 

On which the dews of midnight, 
Like teardrops, gleam, at morn, 

Which Phoebus dries, so gently, 
Soon after day is born: 



And, when we'd eaten all we could, 
We climbed the mammoth swing, 

And, pushed by gay Leander good, 
How loud our shouts did ring! 

Then, when old Sol the distant spire, 
(At sunset's hour, so fair,) 

Had touched with finger-tip afire, 
She smoothed my tousled hair, 



O Violet, that hideth 

To Nature's heart so near, 

To whom cleared spots in forests 
Are, ever, fondly dear, 

What joy I feel, the instant 
I spy your lovely head ! 

How glad am I to snatch you 
From out the dry leaves dead 



And bear you off to garnish, 
(With thy rare beauty sweet,) 

My humble, plain apartments 

Thy smile makes bower complete! 

What worlds of bliss those beings, 
Confined indoors, must lack 

Who hurry to the office, 

The school-room, mill, and back, 



Happy as handsome looked they, too; 

She, with eyes brown and bright; 
He, with those laughing orbs of blue 

Showing in her delight: 

Long was the prayer the pastor said; 

Lengthy, the sermon drawn; 
But, to the wife, so newly wed, - 

Short was it all, that morn: 



With not a single second 

To spare to wildwoods roam,- 
To thee find in thy beauty, 

And, then, to bear thee home! 

Oh! dainty, little blossom, 

I'd rather see thy face 
Than any queen of mortals 

Adorned with gems and lace! 



When to its end the service drew, 

Scarce could the lady tell 
Aught of the rector's words, 'tis true, 

For, on her ear they fell 

Like to a murm'ring, mountain stream, 

Ringing its cadence clear, 
Which interrupts no sweet, day dream, 

Dreamt its swift current near; 



IN THE COUNTRY KIRK 

Soft lay the snow on roof and road; 

Icy, the fringe around 
Barn, shed and ample, old abode 

Low built upon the ground; 

Up to the doorstone drew a sleigh, 
Drawn by a mare of brown, 

Into which stepped a bride, one day, 
Gay in her satin gown; 



Prayer was the theme on which he dwelt,- 

Penance and earnest prayer; 
But, naught but love, the young bride felt, 

Ever, could be her care; 

Love would her watchword be, for aye, — 

Love, tender love and true, 
Lasting out life's eventful day, 

Pure as the morning dew! 



Then, o'er the highway sped the mare, 

" (Proud of the pair she drew,) 
Thro' the crisp, clear, but, biting air, 
Under the sky of blue; 



Now, where the snow drifts soft and deep, 
Near where he drove his bride, 

Soundly that gracious groom doth sleep, 
There, in the kirkyard wide: 



Cold altho' blew the brumal blast, 
Warm 'neath fur robes they lay, 

Scanning the houses, which they past, 
Scattered along the way: 



She, with those lustrous locks grown white, 
Oft, when the church bells chime, 

Dreams she sits, yet, a young bride bright, 
As in the olden time; 



Soon, in the kirk's great, roomy pew. 
Close to her husband's side, 

Decked in her wedding outfit new, 
Leaned the young, city bride; 



And, as the years glide swift away, 
Oftener, she thinks of him; 

Oftener, she bows her tresses gray; 
Oftener, her eyes grow dim; 



Ne'er, a more pleasing pair than they 
Sat in that house of prayer, — 

She, in her scarlet bonnet gay, 
He, in his curling hair; 



Oftener, she hears his gentle tone, 
As, with a warm embrace, 

Fondly he kisses her, — his own, 
Stroking her smiling face! 



"3 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 



TO THE BURNING BOGS OF PEAT 



The snow lies deep on hamlet, mount and plain; 

Each fir and cedar wears an ermine cloak; 
The sun, behind dun clouds, in grave disdain, 

Shows not his face, altho' we him invoke: 



Ye peat bogs around me extending 
So brown, as I haste in the train, 

I pray to the heavens, blue bending, 
To give of their bountiful rain! 



But, come with me, across the boundless sea, 
To warmer climes and fairer scenes than this! 

Where snow and ice shall, always, strangers be! 
Where olive-groves and crystal streams, ne'er, 
miss 

To woo the traveller with their charms, so sweet! 

To hold him spellbound with remembrance dear! 
To make his heart with quick pulsations beat! 

To lead his soul his Heavenly Father near! 

For, isn't this the land where Christ was born? 
The place where shepherds watched their flocks, 
by night? 
And does there not a stately church adorn 

The spot where Christ, first, saw the earthly 
light? 

A church which stands upon the very place 
Where, once, that inn so crowded full did lie 

That to the stable Mary turned her face, 
And where our Saviour opened, first, his eye, 

Within a manger's rough but shelt'ring fold, 
O'er which bright angels kept a vigil sweet 

While Wise Men myrrh, and frankincense and 
gold, 
In adoration, laid before His feet? 

Let us, in spirit, on this Christmas morn, 

Whilst organs peal and carols heavenward soar, 

Kneel down where, long ago, our King was born ; 
For, marked it is upon the marble floor, 

And many knees have softly pressed its star, 
Yet, worn and dim, it, still, proclaims the place 

To ev'ry pious pilgrim from afar 

Where ancient shepherds, first, beheld Christ's 
face! 

Then, as we kneel, oh, deep within our souls, 
Thou Star, that flamed that first, famed Christ- 
mas night, 

Shine, once again, while heavenly music rolls, 
And fill them full with thine effulgence bright! 



And, yet, your soft smoke, (slow upcurling 

In spirals of gray to the skies, 
Like pennons of gauze, fair, unfurling,) 

Is beautiful, bogs, to mine eyes! 

But, soon, a snow sheet, cold and freezing, 
Will quench the hot fires in thy breast, 

As, loudly, Jack Frost whirls, a-wheezing, 
Above the low place of thy rest! 

Sleep on, thro' the long winter cheerless ! 

Sleep on, and may sweet be thy dream! 
Heed not shouts of skaters, so fearless, 

Who o'er thy cold coverlet teem! 

Ere long, will thy reeds and thy rushes 

Grow green as an emerald fair, 
While 'mongst them the meadowlark hushes 

Her brood with solicitous care! 

The iris will bathe in the waters 

That gleam on thy waistcoat of green; 

And fair Arethusa's loved daughters 

Will blush when their rendezvous's seen! 

Ah! then, 'tis thy face is entrancing, 

Ye peat bogs, now, smould'ring and brown, 
With sunbeams of gold lightly glancing 

Ton brow bound by springtime's flower crown! 

I'd like to stroll by, ye bogs, slowly, 

To list to the sermons ye preach ! 
To learn from your lilies, so lowly, 

The lessons, alone, they can teach! 

Too fleet is the steam-train, a flying; 

To walk far too long is the way; 
So, get I but glances, on-hieing, 

When spring tricks thee out in garb gay! 

CHILDHOOD DAYS 

Oh, how blest were the days of childhood, 
When we bore not a shade of care! 

When we roved thro' the tangled wildwood 
In bare feet and with tousled hair! — 



114 



When the hay-mow, so high, we hunted 

For the eggs of the speckled hen! 
When we fed the old hog which grunted 

From her straw in the barnyard pen! 

When we skipped on to school, a-singing, 

(Tho' 'twas all of a weary mile,) 
Our loved songs and gay rounds a-ringing 

On our red, smiling lips, the while! — 

When we rode for the cows, each gloaming, 
On the back of the old, gray mare! — 

When we went o'er the meadows roaming 
For spring blossoms, so sweet and fair! 

When the sun shone so bright and beaming, 
And the cold seemed so clear and still, 

How we coasted, with shout and screaming, 
Down the slope of the little hill! 

And we think, when we're nearing seventy, 
Of those days, long ago, so bright, 

When we bread ate with milk in plenty, 
Ere we climbed to our beds, at night, 

And to peaceful and restful slumber, 

Not to wake till the dawn of day, 
When we rose, (not a care t'encumber,) 

Making plans for the day's sweet play! — 

When we cared for nor crown or penny, 

Thinking, ne'er, whence came drink or food, 

Or our clothing and toys, so many, 

Which we took in a thoughtless mood! 

Ah! those days do we, all, remember, — 

The fair days of our early June, 
When we reach frosty, old December, 

And our songs seem all out of tune! 

ODE TO MY MAPLE TREE 

Here, 'neath the shade of my maple I'm sitting; 
Soft thro' its boughs sighs the sweet, summer 
breeze ; 
Fairy-like shadows, so cool, come a-flitting 
Round me and Fritzie, asleep at my knees; 
Sunshine, so gold of hue, 
Hard tries to filter thro' 
Foliage full of my bountiful tree, 
Which, for three years, in love, 
Proudly hath towered above 
Me, as I sat 'neath its shelter, so free: 

Oft, have I watched tender leaflets a-drooping, 
With'ring in August's hot, sultry high-noons; 



Oft, I've observed giddy insects a-trooping 

Round thee, in swarms, humming Love's sweet- 
est tunes; 
Then, at the set of sun, 
Nightly, I've lightly run, 
Bathing thy roots in cool water, so clear; 
And, how rejoiced I'd be, 
Always, at morn, to see 
How much refreshed would my maple appear: 

Murmuring maple, as straight as an arrow, 

Even in winter, when bare is thy breast, 
Loved art thou, well, by the bluejay and sparrow, 
Seeking, in tempests, a spot where to rest! 

Seamed" is thy bole, so brown ! 

Graceful, thy leafy crown, 
Bowing and bending, when bluff blows the blast ! 

How it would grieve my heart, 

Were we, my Tree, to part! 
Till shall we die may our comradeship last! 

Fair is my tree, when, (from cradles, so downy,) 
Peep the young buds in their gowns of light 
green ; 
Fairer is he when each gay, little brownie, 
Clad in bright scarlet, each autumn, is seen; 
Then, when I shed a tear 
Over dropped leaves, so sere, 
Dressed like a bride, on her bright, wedding 
morn, 
There, stands my maple pale, 
Drooping 'neath snowy veil, 
Pure as a babe on the day it is born: 

Then, when the mists from the meadows come 
creeping, 
Folding my tree in dank blankets of gray, 
Sometimes, it happens the North Wind comes 
sweeping 
Down from the pole, ere the dawn of the day; 
So, when I rise from sleep, 
Down thro' my shutters peep, 
Trembling, I stand at the sight that I see; 
For, clad in shining mail, 
Now, looms my maple hale, 
Looking so fierce my first thought is to flee; 

But, when warm rays of soft sunshine fall flashing, 

Full, on his helmet, his cuirass and greaves, 
Down from its scabbard his claymore falls clash- 
ing— 
Down to the ground, on last year's decayed leaves ; 
Then, thro' his visor bright, 
Gleaming with morning light, 
Hear I a voice, but, unnat'ral it sounds; 



115 



"I am thy maple tree! 
Friend dear, oh, set me free! 
I am a prisoner, e'en here, on thy grounds! 

"Aid me! I'm freezing 'neath icicle armor! 

Tear away corselet and bare my cold breast! 
Rip sparkling helm from my head! (I'll be calm- 

er! ) 
Rip it! be quick! 'tis my dying request!" 

Then, whilst the wind low moans, 

Loudly, the warrior groans, 
Bursting his bonds like an athlete of might, 

Till, 'neath his feet I spy 

Millions of fragments lie, 
Glitt'ring like gems in the clear, wintry light: 

But, whate'er guise, Tree, you wear, — of a brown- 
ie, 
Clothed in gay crimson and gold, in the fall; — 
That of wee babes, couched in cradles, so downy; — 
Or of an armor-clad champion tall; — 
Or, (to my choice, the best,) 
Bride, in soft snowflakes dressed; 
Dearly, I'll love thee, forever and aye! 
Wide-spreading Maple Tree, 
Long, may you shelter me! 
Long, may I thee have to cherish, I pray! 



SUNSET AT THE FARM 

When the willows, (a-bending, so low, 
'Bove the brook in the meadow-lot green,) 

Lengthening shades o'er the glassy stream throw, 
Where blue flags, in their vanity, lean, 

When the touch of the sun turns the vane, 
(On the rambling, old barn,) to real gold, 

And each cobwebby, cracked window-pane 
Seems a fiery furnace to hold, 

Then, there come, from the depths of the vale, 
Brindled Bess, the May Queen and June Bride, 

Chewing cuds in contentment, each tail 

Switching flies from a sleek, glossy hide; — 

Jack, the dog, barking loud at their heels, 
Their slow footsteps a little to haste, 

While the musical, sheep-bell chime steals 
From the pasture lands running to waste: 

As the boy starts to milk the May Queen, 
Up the road come a whinny and neigh; 

And two hayracks are, presently, seen 

Piled, sky high, with their loads of sweet hay; 



And the voices of Dick and black Nell, 
On the air, (now, so solemn and still,) 

Seem like clarion notes clear to swell, 
As they echo from mountain to hill: 

When the horses are watered and fed, 

Well wiped down with soft wisps of sweet hay, 

When the sun, in his chariot red, 
To the fast-fading west speeds away, 

When the moon and famed Hesperus bright 
Light their lanterns in yon evening sky, 

Then, the master and men, with hearts light, 
(After wash at the well, the barn by,) 

Sit them down to a nourishing meal, 
Which they eat, after sa>'d is a grace 

By the farmer who ever doth feel 

That God's goodness to him he can trace 

In the harvests abundant he reaps 

From the mountain, the moorland and vale, 
With which storehouse and hayloft he heaps, 

And which, never, he's, yet, found to fail: 

Then, while mistress and maid table clear, 
And the boy wood-box fills with chips dry, 

The low grunts of the hogs they can hear, 
As they root in the straw of the sty : 

Now, the farmer strolls out, with his pipe, 
To the porch, in the fresh, dewy air, 

There, to kiss the round cheeks, — (peaches ripe,) 
Of his wee, toddling grandchild, so fair: 

Soon, the chat of the child, on his arm, 
Takes him back, for a decade of years, 

To the time when her mother could charm 
From his breast the day's worries and fears ; 

And he turns his tanned face toward the hill, 
(Where she sleeps, now, 'neath daisies, so white,) 

Heeding not the low chant of the rill, 

Which she, once, used to list with delight; 

Then, his pipe lays he down, and on hair 

Of her baby he seals a kiss light, 
For, she, now, in soft slumber, doth wear, 

More than ever, her mother's smile bright: 

Then, while grandma tucks grandchild endeared 
In the crib, where her mother, once, lay, 

Crooning softly a lullaby weird 

To the carol the house-crickets play, 



:i6 



Grandpa muses and smokes in his seat 

Till nine strokes from the old kitchen clock 

Rouse him up from his train of thought fleet, 
When he rises the ashes to knock 

From his pipe of white clay, long and straight, 
Climbing slowly the stairs to the place 

Where his wife by the baby doth wait, 
With a smile on her peaceful, old face: 

With no light, except that of the moon, 

(Which floods over the smooth, painted floor,) 

To their beds they retire, to the tune 
That the whippowills sadly outpour ; 

And their sleep is refreshing and sound, 
Not a noise to disturb deserved rest 

Save the growls of dear Jack, — the old hound, 
Keeping guard over all he loves best: 

God be thanked for such homes of the blest, 
Far away from town tumult and din! — 

Far away from the cares that infest! — 
Far away from temptation and sin! 

Would that all in the close, crowded town, 
Who're surrounded by evil and harm, 

Once a year, at the least, might care drown 
In the sweet, peaceful joys of the farm! 

TO THE MERRIMAC AND THE POET 
WHO DWELLS ON ITS BANKS 

Like a King of the Turf, (justly proud 

Of the medal of gold he hath won, 
His neck arching at cheers of the crowd,) 

Flecked with foam is his glossy breast dun: 

So, the Merrimac, boasting of feet 

That have turned many thousands of mills, 

Now, flows on, with a smile passing sweet, 
Thro' "he pines and the firs of the hills! 

Nevermore, shall those silvery feet 

Drive the huge, dripping wheels, round and 
round ! 
Nevermore, shall that heart throb and beat 

At his waters wild, riotous sound! 

By the rough, old, chain bridge, spanning stream, 
(Which creaks loud at pedestrians' tread,) 

He strides on, (in a happy, day dream,) 
O'er the shallows and shoals of his bed: 

At the house by the bridge, oft, he looks, 
Where dwells she, — the famed Poetess fair, 



Whose sweet verses are like to the brooks 
Which meander 'mong rare maiden-hair: 

Quite as brown as the rocks 'neath his tide 

Is the glance of his beautiful eye, 
As he looks on the casement, flung wide, 

And the lady who loit'reth it by, 

Listening, long, at the lullaby low 
The loved river to her softly sings, 

Wishing much that each note she might know 
And the mystical meaning it brings: 

It is twenty, long years since I viewed 
Thy clear waves gently purling along 

'Neath the~ bridge, ancient, rusty and rude, 
But, I, still, well remember thy song, 

And the home of the lady, hard by, 
Almost hidden by blossoms, so gay, 

Which look up to the beauteous, blue sky, 
Listening, too, to the tune of thy lay! 

The sweet poetry, tender and bright, 
Of this gray, little lady, so grand, 

Like the work thou hast done, Water Sprite, 
Is well known over all the broad land! 

May this Writer of, "Oh, Soft, Spring Airs," 
Give the world sweet songs more, Lord, I pray, 

While the Merrimac on bravely fares 
To the sea in its own, quiet way! 



VOICES OF NATURE 

Dearest Reader, have ever you listened, 
On some halcyon day, to songs sweet, 

Which, by sea, or, (in deep, tangled woodlands,) 
Nature sings to, forever, repeat? — 

To the lap of the tide on the shingle, 
To the breakers that roll on the sand, 

To the surge of tempestuous billows, 

To the bittern's loud roar thro' the land? — 

To the rune of the pattering raindrops, 
To the ramp of the wild, wintry blast, 

To the rumble of far-distant thunder, 
To the seething of cataracts vast? — 

To the babble of brooks o'er their pebbles, 
To the lisp of the leaves, overhead, 

To the rustle of reeds in the marshes, 
To the moan of the sea in its bed? — 



117 



1T0 the hooting of owls in the twilight, 
To the drum of the grouse on a log, 

To the buzz of the bee in bright blossoms, 
To the croak of the hoarse-throated frog? — 

To the falling of nuts in the forest, 

To the crunch of the snow 'neath your tread, 

To the woodpecker's tap on the tree-trunk, 
To the gander's, "Honk! honk!" overhead? 

If you have, then, you know, without telling, 
What huge pleasure and profit are won 

In, each day, lending ear to Dame Nature 
Who will, never, her lessons have done! 



COUSIN CORDELIA 

Laughing and crowing rode sweet Cody small, 

Swung on some shoulder high, 
Over the rough, rocky, old, pasture wall, 

Under the summer sky, 
While from the deep, balsam jungle, hard by, 
Broke on her keen, baby ear the clear cry, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody ! Peabody ! Peabody ! ' ' 

Soft waved the grass and the grain in the wind! 

Almost waist-high were they! 
Ripe enough, soon, for the reaper to bind 

And in the mow to lay, 
Whilst from the evergreens, over the way, 
Loud sang the white-throats, in syllables gay, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" 

Sometimes, she shuffled from one of her feet 

Just a wee sandal fair 
Down 'mongst the oats or the blooming buckwheat, 

Leaving her ankle bare, 
But, for her shoe had she never a care, 
Whilst from the balsams rang out the notes rare, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" 

Ah! how she reached for the raspberries red, 

Growing so thick around ! 
Ah! how she nodded her bright, curly head, 

When these for her they found, 
As at her side followed Fido, the hound, 
And, from the fir-trees, rang out the sweet sound, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody ! Peabody ! Peabody ! ' ' 

Then, when, at home, in the farmhouse, so old, 
Saw they the shoe was lost, 



Sent they good Fido, so brave and so bold, 

Where they the field had crossed, 
Knowing he'd find it, tho' heavy the cost, 
As rang the lay from the balsams, green-mossed, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" 

Still, sing the white-throated sparrows, today, 

Out from the fir-trees old ; 
But, wee Cordelia, (that summer, so gay,) 

Also, dear Fido bold, 
List not the lay, for, both sleep 'neath the mould, 
Far from the spot where the music's, e'er, rolled, 

"S-o-w Y-o-u-r O-a-t-s! 

Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" 



HER DREAM 

Upon her couch in slumber soft she lay; 
Far overhead, the stars close vigil kept, 
And thro' the lattice whisp'ring winds of autumn 

crept, 
As o'er her soul this thrilling dream held sway; 

Before her vision spread a judgment hall 
With aged judge in wig and flowing gown ; 
Within the dock, a youth, whose locks of darkest 

brown 
In thick profusion o'er his brow did fall; 

On court-room chairs there lounged a motley 

throng, 
Among which sat a man with drooping head 
And countenance as colorless as of the dead; 
When, at the sudden clang of brazen gong, 

The walls of crowded hall swung slowly out, 
And, 'fore the dreaming sleeper's frightened eyes 
Behold! she saw a huge, rude, wooden cross arise : 
With hangman and his helpers round about: 

Just then, the man, (with wan, averted face,) 
Upraised the head he, once, had held so proud, 
And scanned, in silence deep, the hushed and gap- 
ing crowd, 
As tho' of some one he would find a trace: 

And, then, it seemed to her upon the bed 
That 'mong the press she stood with aching heart, — 
A heart that bled for him who bore so well his part, 
Tho' leaped his pulse and whirled his handsome 
head: 

And, while she gazed upon the prisoner pale, 
Who must, erelong, a traitor's death endure 



Mi 



Because the views of Heaven held he so firm and 

sure 
He'd not retract tho' tender flesh should quail, 

I 
It chanced, the eye, that roved the court-room 

round, 
Espied her form; and, o'er the face of stone 
A smile, like sunshine flooding barren mountains 

lone, 
Burst forth, as, at one graceful, nimble bound, 

He benches cleared, and at the dreamer's feet 

Knelt he, saluting her in accents soft; 

Then, as he raised those deep blue, pleading eyes, 

aloft, 
She seemed to list Love's language, pure and sweet: 

"At last," she murmured, "thou, my Idol fair, 

Art come to me thy peerless love to vow!" 

She trembled at the thought; but, what was this 

that, now, 
She heard from lips which thrice had kissed her 

hair? 

"My Friend, I ask of thy deep love this boon, — 
If thou wouldst make me wholly, truly glad, 
On yonder, rude and cruel cross take place of lad! 
Be quick! decide! he dies at stroke of noon!" 

The brow, (that beat with joy, a second since,) 
With sweat, now, shone, in many a glistening bead ,* 
In man's beseeching eyes, (that looked their fear- 
ful greed,) 
She gazed, again, nor did she cringe or wince: 

"I will!" then, came in measured accents slow; 
"Upon the cross, to win thy love, I'll die, 
For, living, you will, evermore, that meed deny, 
Tho' decades drear should slowly come and go!" 

Around her form caressing arms he threw, 
And pressed a grateful kiss upon her brow; 
She felt that any death would welcome, thrice, be, 

now, 
And smiled upon the cross which stood in view: 

Then, off her neck his circling arms she broke, 

Cast one more look upon his happy face, 

And strode with slow, yet, steady footsteps towards 

the place 
Where stood the cross; then, at that instant, woke: 

A dream it was, — a vision, if you will, 
Which, till from earth the dreamer shall depart, 
Will lie upon the tender tablets of her heart 
Its strange, (yet, heaven-sent,) mission to fulfil! 



LAY OF THE ROBBER JAY 

When the snow is flying, when the wind is cold, 
Hark the jays a-crying! List the robbers bold! 

Roosting on the cedar, where the suet's hung, 
See the robber leader! Hear his rasping tongue! 

Tipping head, not vainly, first, to left, then, right, 
(He may see more plainly just what food's in 
sight,) 

Soon, by something bated, in some corner bare, 
Rings his war-cry hated thro' the frosty air ! 

Dives he down and loses not a second's time, 
Taking what he chooses, pays he, tho', no dime: 

How the crumbs he snatches! How he stabs the fat! 
Yea, this gormand matches, e'en, a famished rat! 

Note his coat, blue beaming! Mark his kingly 

crest ! 
But, a coward seeming is he, at his best! 

All the snowbirds, feeding, at his advent, flee; 
Well they know his breeding! Know his glutton 
glee! 

Yet, if but a motion in the house he sees, 
Robber Jay's a notion ill the food doth please: 

With a whir of feather, with a grating cry, 
He and his, together, gain the wood, hard by; 

Watching, like a sentry, till is clear the way, 
Then, another entry makes the robber jay! 

With a heart forgiving, we should give him food 
Who but gets his living in this manner rude! 



THE CACTUS 
(To the Late Mrs. George F- 



Elegant cactus, radiant red, 
(Bright as the sun, when, from his bed, 
Swiftly, at morn, each pleasant day, 
Blithe, he upsprings and bounds away,) 
Kiss with thy carmine lips, so rare, 
Cheeks of thy mistress, old, yet, fair! 
Prick not the hand which fondles thee! 
None can more true and tender be! 
Dearly she loves, that woman old, 
Dearly she loves thy heart of gold! 



119 



She's been a queen, as well as thou, 
'Fore whom rapt listeners, low, did bow;- 
Thou, queen of beauty; she, of song; 
Sweet was her bird-like voice, years long; 
Many a lovely flower did rest, 
Once, on her trembling, modest breast; 
Now, she is feeble, worn and old ; 
Laces, no more, her neck enfold ; 
Close to the hearthstone lingers she, 
Nursing her grandchild dear and thee; 
Soothe thou her last remaining years! 
Wipe from her eyes all falling tears! 
Grand was her mission ; now, 'tis o'er ; 
Pattern by her, and ask no more! 

WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN 

When my ship comes swiftly sailing 

O'er the magic sea of gold, 
Bearing proudly in its coffers 

Countless, earthly wealth untold, 

I shall hie me to the mountains, 
And on southern slope so green 

Build a tiny, cosy cottage, 

'Gainst which roses red shall lean: 

Thro' whose casements, ever open, 
Shall stream in the cheerful sun; 

Whence I'll watch the changing shadows; 
Hear the brawling brooklets run; — 

Feel the cooling, balmy breezes 

Laden heavily with smell 
Of the orange, peach and lemon 

Which our palates please so well; — 

See the shepherd, (with his collie 
Guarding sheep,) approach the fold, 

When the star of evening glimmers 
In the west, above the wold: 

Or, when dew sleeps on the upland, 
'Neath its million jets of light, 

I shall skim the mountain roadway, 
(Winding, silver ribbon bright,) 

Sitting, charmed, behind my horses, 
Who shall know nor spur nor whip, 

But, who'll ears turn back to listen 
To kind words from driver's lip; — 

Who shall follow me, like kittens, 

All about the garden wide, 
Rubbing heads against my shoulder, 

Gamb'ling gayly at my side, — 



Delving deep in ev'ry pocket 

For the sugar, there, they'll find, — 

Keeping off the jealous spaniel 
With her playful brood behind: 

And, when night her sable curtains 
Draws o'er all my landscape fair, 

I'll retire to vine-clad cottage, 
On whose canvases, so rare, 

I may gaze where master artists 

Sketched, with skill, some mountain view, 

Or, clear lake with firs reflected 
In its placid bosom blue, 

There, to sit and read and ponder 
'■ O'er the books the cases fill 

Till the clock upon the mantel 

Chimes the curfew hour, so still; — 

Then, to dream of sprites and dryads, 
Nymphs and fairies till the time 

When Aurora's prancing ponies 

Fling from bits the jewelled rime; — 

Rising, then, to visit horses, 

Dogs and cattle, lambs and sheep; 

Feasting eyes on snowy summits, 

(Guardians grim which never sleep;) 

Breathing, deep, the air life-giving; 

Thanking God that I'm so blest; 
Singing, with the birds, His praises 

Till, again, I go to rest! 

AUGUST 

Oh, August, clad in your cloak of dust, 
With your breath so scorching hot, 

We welcome you, for, we know we must, 
But, we love you not one jot ! 

The hardhack, (panicled, now, with pink,) 

Nods by ev'ry pasture wall; 
The meadow-sweet, next of kin, I think, 

Tries to be than she more tall: 

Sleek, lazy cattle lie down to chew, 
'Neath some spreading tree, their cud; 

And, by the bars, graceful asters blue 
Cluster thick, tho', still, in bud: 

The gonfalon of the goldenrod 
For a stirring breeze awaits 
To flaunt its color far o'er the sod, 
When your burning air abates: 
1 20 



MM 



The brawling brook, to the river bound, 
Is a stream that sings, no more; 

And jewel-weeds, in its dried-up ground, 
Hang their heads in sorrow sore: 

The birds are songless, throughout the day, 
Tho' they come, with beaks oped wide, 

To the dish of water I always lay 
'Neath the trees, at broad noontide: 

But, locusts call, in their strident note, 
From the bearded wheat and rye; 

And butterflies gayly flit and float 
Where the fair moth-mulleins lie: 

The hills are wrapped in a haze of smoke, 

And the forest leaves are still; 
While, now and then, can be heard the croak 

Of a crow in yonder ghyll: 

Far overhead, like a bloodshot eye, 
Phoebus glares o'er hill and dale; 

Whilst, 'twixt the earth and the purpling sky 
Hangs a thin, transparent veil: 



Some sultry morn, at a highland brook, 
Will the shearers wash the sheep, 

And, when they're shorn, oh, how small 
look, 
As, away, they'll, frightened, leap! 



they'll 



Ah, August, when, (with your breath, so hot,) 
You green grass-blades turn to brown, 

In meadow-land and in garden-plot, 
You make ev'ry farmer frown, 

For, crops dry up and no plant does well 

Save the thistle, far afield, 
Or trumpet weeds, in yon boggy dell, 

Which no food us mortals yield! 

And, if a shower you're so good to pour 

O'er each dusty road and lane, 
We feel as warm as we did before 

Your short fall of muggy rain ! 

So, now, you see, August hot, that we 

Do not love you as we might ; 
But, if you care our Beloved to be, 

You must change your ways, some night! 

ROBERT EMMET'S LAST MOMENTS 

On a scaffold, rudely fashioned, 

Stood the Rebel of the day 
With a face, pale, unimpassioned, 

And with eyes, deep-set and gray, 



By a kerchief bandaged tightly 
To shut out the sunshine sweet 

Which shone down, in pity, brightly, 
Upon Dublin's dirty street: 

Not a nerve or muscle quivered ; 

Full of fortitude stood he, 
While the mob, about him, shivered 

At his attitude, so free: 

With his noble head uplifted, 
As tho' lost in dreams of love, 

Like a statue, this man gifted 

Towered the gaping crowd above: 

In the hand, (that, late, had wielded 
The sharp sword of shining steel,) 

A small scarf of white was shielded 
His approaching death to seal: 

He was told, wdien he was ready, 
To the banner bright fling down; 

But, he quiet stood and steady, 
Moving not from heel to crown: 

In the midst of silence deathless, 
For the Dead the Gaelic Wail 

From a peasant rose, but, breathless, 
Rested he, so calm and pale: 

All unmoved, as tho' a-listening, — 
As if steeped in thoughts profound, 

Emmet stood, while eyes, a-glistening, 
Marked the mass of men, around: 

In the mountain glen he rambled, 
With the hills a-purpling o'er, 

Where the foaming fountains gamboled 
With a murmur or a roar; — 

With the hawthorn bushes budding, 
Scenting all the springtime air; — 

With the hermit-thrush a-flooding 
It with love-songs, sweet and rare: 

"Mister Emmet, are you ready?" 

Echoed like a bugle blast; 
"No, not yet!" but, strong and steady, 

To his Darling's eyes, at last, 

Surged the love for which he'd waited 
Since a boy he'd been, in years, 

And her soul with his she mated 
In a flow of tender tears : 



"Are you ready?" now, repeated, 
Came the jailer's voice, again; 
But, with Sarah by him seated, 
Loitered he within the glen, 

With the crimson foxgloves blushing 
On the hillocks' greening crest; — 

With his sweetheart's face a-flushing 
At her love, at last, confessed: 

It was thoughts, like these, a-filling 
Robert Emmet's heart and brain 

Which all dread of death was stilling, 
Bringing rapture in their train! 



Upc 



Huntington 
green 



WOODSIDE COT 

Hill, 'neath the pine trees, so 



And the cedars, where chickadees call, 
At the end of the road, where quite plainly is seen 
Great Moose Hill looming up like a wall, 

I have builded my house which I call, "Woodside 
Cot," 
And I love it, no matter how drear 
The long winter may be, or, the summer how hot, 
For, it's home, to my heart, oh, how dear! 

j 
But four rooms, (as four walls,) Woodside Cot do 
compose, 
Which are cosy and snug as can be; 
O'er the sunny, south porch climbs a red rambler 
rose, 
Soon, to peep in the doorway at me; 

On the east is my grove, where the pines deftly lay 
A thick carpet of rich, russet brown; 

And the seats, scattered round, are of granite, so 
gray, 
Cushioned well with green moss, soft as down: 

To the northward, my lawn slopes abruptly away 

To a forest of chestnut trees tall, 
And, 'tis, here, that I watch for a tiny elf gray, 

Who, I think, sleeps in yonder stone wall; 

And, when chestnuts, so shining and brown, scarce 
shall grow, 

Master Squirrel, with waistcoat of white, 
Just you pay me a visit, and, then, you will know 

That to you I can be most polite! 

But, it's not on my garden, which lies to the west, 
Nor my parlor of pines, green and gray, 

That my eyes and attention the oftenest rest, 
As I sit at my window, today! 



At the foot of the cedars, which top the steep slope, 
(Where old Boreas loudest doth blow,) 

Is a basket of seeds, there, I placed in the hope 
That the juncos I better might know; 

Led by instinct, the blue-slaty birds found the 
grain ; 

First, came five; then, a dozen or more; 
Now, in flocks of fifteen, spite of snow or of rain, 

Come the White Bills to feed at my door! 

So, with Mother and Bob, I'm not lonely, you see, 
With my squirrel, (I'll soon, better know,) 

With the juncos and chickadees coming to me, 
For a seed or a crust, thro' the snow! 

And, when red, sunset rays touch my eaves, sloping 
low, 

Turning fretting of ice to gems bright, 
I'll believe it a castle enchanted, you know, 

And that I am its princess, by right! 

All the birds, flocking round, my retainers I'll call, 
Whom I'll feed with fresh suet and grain; 

For, no matter who, hungry, comes, here, to my 
hall, 
He'll not beg for refreshment, in vain! 

Yes, dear Woodside, I love thee, thou poor, little 
cot, 

When the light on thee lovingly falls, 
And I pray the good Lord that it be my sweet lot 

To breathe out my last breath in thy halls! 



LINES WRITTEN ON MY BIRTHDAY 

Launched by the Lord on the Sea of Life, 

Fifty long years ago, 
More of its peace have I seen than strife, — 

More of its joy than woe; 

And, as I stand at the golden goal, 

Stamped with its fifty miles, 
Looking back over my life, as a whole, 

Breaketh my face in smiles: 

Jewels and gems have I none, — not one ; 

Silver I've none to spare; 
But, I can sleep, when the day is done, 

Free from all cark and care: 

Save my good mother, my friends are few, 

Yet, I've a home and health; 
And, with my spaniel, both fond and true, 

Zounds for your useless wealth! 



122 



In my wee cot I am quite content, 

Far from the madding crowd, 
Where I can follow my study bent, 

Scorned by no neighbors proud: — 

Built 'mong the trees, on the hilltop high, 

Where I can breathe God's air, 
Where I can see the fair, sunset sky, 

Naught can with this compare! 

Cometh this thought, on my natal day, 
"Yet, tho' is seamed thy brow, 

Close tho' is cropped thy thin locks of gray, 
Time there is left thee, now ! 

"Use thou the talent within thy breast! 

Use it, altho' so small! 
Use it, nor let it, a second, rest! 

Use it in aid of all! 

"Maybe, the gift, (you have found so late,) 

Needs to be used to shine, 
Just like the gem, (in its rough, rude state,) 

Polishing makes so fine! 

*'And, as you've found, the sweet Muse doth 

Merry each moment flow, 
So, for thine own and thy readers' sake, 

More of her try to know! 

"She is a lass, who, at times, is coy; 

Yet, if to her you're true, 
Soon, you will find that your dearest joy, 

Truly, is her to woo! 

"Many, long years you have lost on work 

Not to your taste, at all ; 
But, for the time which is left you, shirk, 

Ne'er, when the Muse doth call! 

"Knocketh she lightly upon the door! 

Quickly she speaks and flees, 
Telling her tale to one's ears, no more, 

Not e'en a king to please!" 

Lord, make the Muse whisper in mine ear 
Songs which are pure and sweet! 

Songs which the sad will delight to hear, 
Even, to oft repeat! 

Songs for the lowly who music love, — 
Songs which the lone may cheer, — 

Songs sweet as those of the turtle-dove, 
Sung in the springtime 5^ear! 



make 



If I can sing but this sort of lay, 

Satisfied I shall be, 
When, at the close of each happy day, 

Finished some song I see! 

ODE TO DISAPPOINTED FORTUNE 
SEEKERS FROM THE COUNTRY 

Oh, come back to your mother, ye children 
Who have wandered for fame or for wealth! 

Oh, come back from the highways of striving! 
Come ye back and regain your lost health! 

Come away from the hot, stifled city! 

Come away from the dark, dusty town! 
Come away, and she'll sing you a ditty! 

Come away, and she'll scatter each frown, 

For, no longer, ye'll hear chud of autos, 
Or the clang of the telephone bell! — 

But, instead, the sweet solo of zephyrs 
Thro' the murmuring pines of the dell! 

And the puff of the huge locomotive 

And the roar of the fierce, furnace blast 

Ye'll forget in the voice of the brooklet, 
When, from bondage released, it flies past! 

Ye will list the wind wooing the laurel, 
As, by hedgerows, ye, loitering, pass! 

Ye will lips see, like ripest of cherries, 
Upon many a Hebe-like lass; 

While the meek, patient, gentle-eyed oxen 
Will stand deep in the red clover sweet, 

And the sheep, in the pastures a-browsing, 
With a low, plaintive bah ye will greet! 

Then, a small, cosy cot, on the uplands, 

Whence ye'll watch your crops growing, each 
morn, 

Will repay ye for all your lost riches, 

And ye'll thanks give that, here, were ye born! 

So, now, come, for, your mother is calling 
From the mountains, the meadows and vale! 

And the wildflowers bright, on her bosom, 
Smile a welcome which, never, shall fail! 

HIS FIGHT FOR LIFE 

Far from the shore, so dear, 
Out on the ocean drear, 

Drifted a sail; 
Tossed by the billows white, 
Great was the boatman's fright, 

Caught in the gale: 



123 



Lands none in Casco Bay- 
Sailor could see, that day, 

Save Eagle Isle, 
Which, by God's help, he gained, 
Just before daylight waned, 

Where, for a while, 



Ne'er, will that man forget 
Birds white with wings of jet, 

Graceful and trim, 
Skimming the misty air, 
Seeming to raise a prayer 

Piteous to Him,— 



Glad was the seaman brave, 
Snatched from the swirling wave, 

Safe from the storm, 
Crouched by a driftwood fire, 
(Like to a pagan pyre,) 

Warming his form; 

When, from old ocean bound, 
Fast came a whirring sound 

Puzzling him well ; 
But, soon, 'twas all explained; 
Eyes, thro' the darkness strained, 

Earthward, quick, fell, 

For, into fire and face 
Flew countless birds, apace, 

Drawn by the light, 
Striking with wing and beak, 
In their mad march to seek 

Rest for the night: 

Seizing a stick to swing 
'Gainst each fast flapping wing, 

Toiled he in vain ; 
Then, falling flat a-ground, 
Birds wildly circled round, 

Beat, tho', the rain; 

Resting, face downward, so, 
'Scaped the good man each blow 

Seabirds him dealt; 
But, the benumbing cold 
Caused him to be more bold, 

Fear, tho' he felt; 

So, on his feet, once more, 
Bleeding and smarting sore, 

(Oft, downward cast,) 
Minutes, like hours, dragged by, 
When, with a clearing sky, 

Day dawned, at last; 

Soon as the sky grew light, 
Birds took to sudden flight, 

Leaving alone 
Him on the ledge, half dead, 
Wounds on his hands and head 

Cut to the bone: 



God, the All-Father wise, 
Ruler of earth and skies, 

Lord of the sea, 
Who, from His Throne on High, 
Lists ev'ry creature's cry, 

Faint tho' it be! 



PLUMA'S SNUFF BOX 

Look at this trinket tiny, 

Out of mahogany made, 
Yet, perfect, smooth and shiny, 

Here, on my whatnot laid! 

Hardly you'd think that seventy, 

Seventy long years ago, 
Grandma was, then, but twenty, 

Loved by a blithesome beau, 

Who, in his way beguiling, 

Gave her this pretty box, 
As she sat sweetly smiling, 

Darning her dainty socks: 

Snuff Box, so bright and shining, 
Grandpa well formed thy frame! 

Sweet were his thoughts entwining 
Thee, as with tongues of flame! 

Thus ran these thoughts; — "Fair Feather, 
(Pluma was Grandma's name,) 

"Long may we dwell, together, 
Thou, as my honored Dame!" 

Fashioned by Grandpa's fingers, 

Pierced by Dan Cupid's dart, 
Love of a lifetime lingers, 

Here, in this Snuff Box Heart! 

When Grandpa gave the token, 

Back on that halcyon day, 
Little he dreamed, unbroken, 

Here, it would find its way: 

And, as o'er box she bended, 
Little did Grandma trust 



124 



Well would it be defended 
After her heart was dust: 

Snuff Box, so smooth and shining, 
As o'er thee, now, I lean, 

There, on thy polished lining 
Never a speck is seen! 

Grandma, so prim and petted, 
Need not you, e'er, suppose, 

Ever, put snuff, so fetid, 
Up to her little nose! 

But, in the tiny token 
She a sweet bean did lay; 

And, from its breast unbroken 
Comes a faint scent, today ! 

Now, in yon, green God's Acre 
Lovers rest, side by side, — 

Grandma and Snuff Box Maker, 
Grandpa and long-loved Bride! 

And, dear, old Snuff Box, ever, 
Ever, I'll stand by thee! 

Nothing but death can sever 
Grandpa's sweet gift from me! 



THE SQUIRREL BANQUET 



What their old companion's doing, there, 
On the hard and frozen slope, so bare: 

Then, the simple feast enjoying, 

Sits a group of squirrels gray, 
Whilst the wintry wind is toying 

With their fluffy tails which they 
'Long their chubby backs so deftly twine, 
Like to silver mantles, soft and fine: 

Eight, sometimes, surround the table, 

In a circle sitting, there, 
And, 'tis, then, that I am able 

To admire these fellows fair, 
As they crack the kernels of the corn 
To them flung, each cold and frosty morn: 

All alike in size and color 

Look these little friends of mine, 

And their soft, gray coats grow duller, 
As I note their eyeballs shine, 

Whilst they cram the corn with pretty paws 

In their fair, but, forceful, little jaws: 

And they seem so solemn, sitting 
On their haunches, round the corn, 

Had I, never, seen them flitting 

Thro' the woods, some springtime morn, 

I would not believe these creatures staid 

Could have, ever, scampered or have played : 



When the days begin to lengthen, 

And the weather's biting cold, 
It is then I try to strengthen 

My sweet friendship, formed of old, 
With my furry friends of yonder wood, — 
Such a happy, hearty brotherhood ! 

To these furry fellows' dwelling, 
In the wildwood hollows bare, 

Send I, ne'er, a message telling 
Of thr freshly furnished fare; 

But, when comes a cold and frosty morn, 

On the icy slope I cast some corn : 

First, I see but one guest gather 

Round the board, just now, prepared, 

And he lonesome seems, and, rather, 
At his strange, good fortune, scared, 

With his brightly-beaming, watchful eye 

Fixed so fast upon my casement high: 

Soon, I see come thither creeping, 
'Long the ground or down a tree, 

One by one, his comrades, peeping 
All about the spot to sec 



So, the banquet is attended 

By no signs of joy or glee; 
Each wee head is downward bended, 

(Tho' each eye is watching me,) 
As I stand to look at them, below, 
On the frozen ground or sparkling snow; 

And, if, once, I lift a finger, 
Or, e'en, speak in glad surprise, 

Messrs. Squirrel think to linger 
Would be just a bit unwise; 

So, they leave the feast without farewells, 

And go leaping on o'er fields and fells; 

They are out of sight and hearing 

In a moment's time, maybe, 
From some pine-tree trunk a-peering, 

(Or some hollow log,) at me, 
Where they wait until they think I've gone, 
When, again, they come to eat their corn : 

But, there's one, among these brothers, 
Who has much more faith in me 

Than has ev'ry one the others, 
Whom, each winter day, I see, 



125 



And he, sometimes, sits, unmoved, when I 
Cast him corn from out my casement high, 

Looking up to see each motion, 

As I raise the window, wide; 
But, he, never, has a notion 

To run off, like them, and hide; 
And the golden grain, ofttimes, falls down 
On his graceful head and grayish gown : 

Ah! the winter may be dreary 
With its nipping cold and snow, 

And it makes the hearts grow weary 
Of most people whom I know, 

But, if friends in fur, like mine, had they, 

They'd be grieved when winter passed away! 



THE FIESTA 

Up the long, winding path of the mountain, 
Like a giant's great staircase of rock, 

In the glow of a fair, springtime morning, 
Pious pilgrims of Mexico flock 



At the pine-belted Titans, above him, 
With huge glacier and mighty crevasse, — 

At the "White Woman," daring the Indians 
O'er the mystical mountains to pass: 

And these simple, sweet-tongued, gentle Indians, 
(The descendants of th' Aztecs, of old,) 

Talk of vows which impelled this day's journey, 
Of their children, their homes, — ne'er, of gold: 

With suppressed exclamations of wonder 
At the grandeur of scenes spread below, 

With no laughter, no jest, no commotion, 
Devout worshippers grave, upward, go: 

As they clamber the steep, rugged roadway, 

They stop, often, to rev'rently pray 
At the Shrines of the Cross, standing silent 

Like tall monitors mute of the way; 

And, as, kneeling, they breathe, "Pater nosters," — 
(The rotund, short, and patient-faced dame, 

Or, the willowy-formed, modest maiden,) 

We might hear, low-pronounced, Jesus's Name: 



To the chapel built high on the summit, 

(Where the breeze fans their cheeks and their 
ears, ) 

Whence the Village of Amecameca 
Like a beautiful picture appears: 



When they've heard the good Priest's word of wel- 
come, 

Exhortation, and blessing, and prayer, 
They sit down 'neath the trees, calmly happy, 

Breaking fast with tortillas, so rare: 



As they wipe the hot sweat from their foreheads, 
Gazing back at their homes in the vale, 

Let us scan, for a second, the features 
Of these denizens dark of the dale! 



When the snow on yon peak blushes slightly 
At the kiss of the fast-setting sun, 

They begin to descend Sacro Monte, 
Well content that their duty is done; 



There's the mother, (with brow yet unfurrowed, 
And thick hair black as Erebus, still,) 

Who looks long at yon snow-capped volcanoes, 
Ere resuming the climb of the hill; 



For, the Spaniards, who, once, spoiled their temples, 

(Wresting images, silver and gold,) 
In return, taught these innocent people 

Of one Father, one Shepherd, one Fold: 



Or, maybe, as she chats with a neighbor, 
From her bosom, so ample, she'll pull 

The much-loved cigarette whose smoke curling 
'Bove sombrero uprises like wool: 



Now, at morn and at eve, when the fragrance 
Of pomegranates, in bloom, fills the air, 

One may hear, o'er the wide campos wafted, 
The sweet notes of the vesper hymn rare: 



And the shadowy eyes, wistful, pensive, 

Of the Mexican Indian maid 
Peep from 'neath a rich wealth of black tresses 

Where a bright cactus bloom's deftly laid: 



In snug, sun-dried, clay cots, 'neath the cedars, 
These poor Indians, (of calm, serene mind,) 

Dwell at peace, heedless, e'er, of the monster 
With breath smoking and throat sulphur-lined: 



Then, the stout, stalwart form of the father, 
(Clad in blouse of white, spotless as snow,) 

Slowly toils up the height, gazing, often, 
At his hut of adobe, below, — 



126 



May their deep-trusting natures, oh, never, 
Be deceived by a treacherous foe, 

But, may life in the Indian pueblos 

For a thousand years, yet, smoothly flow! 



SONG OF A PAIR OF SHOES 

Soleless and stringless, patched and peeled, 
Here, stand my shoes, which, far afield, 
Many a time, have borne their rider, 
Who, long ago, much wished them wider, 
But, who, today, finds room to spare 
For his old feet, so bruised and bare! 

Once, these same shoes, (now, scratched and 

scarred,) 
Over the dance-floor, waxed and hard, 
Gleefully skipped, soft, smooth and shining, 
Decked in high heels and satin lining; 
Now, torn and twisted, cracked and creased, 
Who would allow them at a feast? 

Wrinkled and rent by sun and storm, 
Try they to keep my old feet warm; 
Yet, tho' they're rusty, daubed and dusty, 
Ever, I've found them true and trusty; — 
Ready to tramp the roughest road, 
Bearing their heavy, living load! 

Little is left of what they were, 
When, in the waltz, I whispered her, 
Asking to dance with her, forever, 
Telling her naught our love could sever; 
That's ere to drink I took, good Dame! 
That's when I bore an honored name! 

But, like these shoes, from bad to worse, 
Slowly I've fallen, (drink, my curse,) 
Till in the ragged rogue, so dirty, 
Never, you'd know the beau of thirty 
Who' was proclaimed the prince of all 
In that renowned, old-time, mask ball! 

So, with these shoes I, ne'er, can part! 
Dame, thus to do would wring my heart! 
But, can't you spare me, Dame, in pity, 
Something to eat to pay this ditty? — 
Something to bear me on my way, 
Tho', I am sure, that short's my stay? 

Soon, like the shoes, so loved, I'll lie, 
Face uppermost, 'neath yonder sky; — 
Over my head the leaves a-heaping, 
Over my heart the rain a-weeping; — 
Over my feet, which miles have tramped, 
These faithful shoes by dewdrops damped! 

I 
Then, should you hear my corse they bear 
From where I die to rest elsewhere, 



Bid them to let these shoes of leather 
And their old owner sleep together, 
For, they were given me, Dame, by one, 
Who, like her gift, earth s work hath done, 
But, were she here, would be my Wife, 
Saving me, Dame, from a drunkard's life! 



PEGGY 

Oh ! Peggy's a maid I love, right well ! 

And, Peggy, yes, she loves me! 
Her voice is as clear as the vesper bell 

That floats over haugh and lea! 

Good Peggy, she asks no silken gown; 

Her needs, they are very few; 
How gently her eyes of liquid brown 

Gaze out from her hide's dark hue! 

Dear Peggy is happy when she goes 
To feed in the meadow green, 

And, there, in the tender grass, her nose 
A-cropping the clover's seen; 

And, when sunset skies gleam rosy red, 

She lies on her bended knees, 
A-chewing her cud, with handsome head 

Caressed by the evening breeze: 

But, sometimes, they hear in yonder cot 
A plaintive and mournful cry, — 

A cry for the calf she's, ne'er, forgot, — 
They took from her side, oh, why? 

Yet, Peggy her milk, (as thick as cream 
And sweet as the flowers of spring,) 

Gives free to us all ; and brightly beam 
Her eyes as her tail doth swing 

O'er velvety haunch to flirt off flies, 

(So saucy in summer time,) 
And, then, Peggy lists, with looks so wise, 

The tune of the milking chime: 

The star, on her forehead, snowy-white, 
Shines out in the gloaming dim, 

Eclipsing the light of the lantern bright, 
Hung high on the stanchion's rim: 

Yes, Peggy, I love you, well, my lass, 
And when comes the winter bold, 

I'll give you fresh grain, instead of grass, 
And shield you from frost and cold! 



127 



TO THE FOX SPARROW 



SWEET SANGAMON 



The snow lay white as ermine 
On roof and turf and tree; 

And, tho' 'twas spring, 

I saw no thing 
That springlike seemed to mc! 

The winter birds were feeding, 
As they had done, each day, — 

The chickadee, 

So full of glee, 
And j uncos, soft and gray! 

When, lo! a strain of music, 
(The sweetest, e'er, I heard,) 
From out the tree, 
Swelled, full and free, — 
The song of some new bird! 

I looked to see a sparrow 
Upon the cedar bough; 
How bulged his throat 
As burst each note ! 
I see it, even now! 

And, oh, such joy and gladness 
As from his mouth did pour! 
And, then, I knew 
It must be true 
That spring had come, once more! 

Each wee, short while, in rapture, 
Throughout that Sunday drear, 
His song rang out 
To show no doubt 
Had he that spring were here! 

A week he stayed to cheer me, 
And, then, I missed him, sore, — 
That sparrow sweet 
I hope to meet, 
When autumn comes, once more! 

For, twice a year, a traveller 
In other lands to bide, 

He, here, doth rest, 

Ere off to nest 
He wings his way so wide! 

God keep thee, fair Fox Sparrow, 
And guide thy wand'ring way 
Until thy call 
Hear I, next fall, 
Some morn, at peep of day! 



Sweet Sangamon singing, (in clear, minor key,) 
A love story, ringing o'er hillside and lea, 

I would I might listen, some day, to thy song, 
As bright thy waves glisten bed graveled along! 

You sing of a lover, gaunt, awkward, but true, 
Whose spirit doth hover, fair river, by you, 

Because, by bluffs grassy, where purl thy waves 

free, 
He wooed a sweet lassie, 'neath sycamore tree! 

And, there, the twain studied, she, grammar, he, 

law, 
While soft the boughs budded and smiled, as they 

saw! 

When, then, sunset's glory your flood turned to 

gold, 
He lisped Love's sweet story, new, ever, tho' old, 

Each youthful face beaming in evening's soft light, 
While, on flowed you, seeming unweeting day's 
flight! 

Great Abe was the wooer ; Ann Rutledge, the fair ; 
And, ne'er, was man truer to girl of gold hair! 



When springtime comes smiling with blossom and 

bee, 
Thy voice, Stream, beguiling, is heard o'er the lea, 

In notes the lad listed, when, sweetheart to meet, 
He rode by thee, twisted in coils, at his feet, 

His eye softly sparkling o'er scenes, near and far, 
As, Stream, thou flowed darkling o'er each pebbly 

bar! 

i 
But, when comes December, (with cold, storm and 

blast,) 
With wails, you remember Abe's grief, long to last! 

His grief for her lying 'neath old, forest trees, 
Past which thou art flying, Stream, swept by the 
breeze ! 

You knew she was dying, so sweet and so brave ! 
You lover saw lying by Ann's grassy grave! 



128 



You sang him, (there, weeping,) a comforting song, 
As, past her tomb sweeping, you hurried along! 

Now, both lie a-sleeping but few miles apart, 
And, Stream, thou art keeping a watch o'er each 
heart ! 

Sweet Sangamon, ever, hie on o'er thy bed, 
And cease singing, never, a dirge for the dead ! 

FALLEN LEAVES 

North from my cosy cottage lie 

Acres of chestnut trees, 
Green 'neath the dome of springtime's sky, 

Gay with bright birds and bees: 

Closely they stand like warriors true, 

(Clad in their garb of green,) 
Waving their spears toward yonder blue, 

Where Captain Sun is seen: 

Gayly they hail him, each clear day, 

"Phoebus, the Lord of Light!" 
Singing to him a martial lay, 

When cometh storm and night: 

Toss tasteful tassels, in June-time, 

High, on each helmet's crown, 
Turning to prickly pompons prime 

Bursting with buttons brown; 

But, when the shining buttons brown, 

Kissed by the fierce Frost King, 
Drop from each faded helmet crown, 

Sallow and shrivelled, swing 

Ev'ry caped coat, (once, green and gay,) 

Down from each soldier's form, 
Showing his figure, gaunt and gray, 

Made to withstand the storm: 

Flutter the banners, (once, so fair,) 

Down to their earthly bed; 
Soundeth a requiem thro' the air 

Played for the honored dead: 

Then, 'twixt the trees, (so bare, now, grown,) 

See I the hills of blue; — 
Spy I the charming, wooded cone, 

Clearly, within my view: 

Thus, like the sight of yonder hill, 

Given when the leaflets fall, 
Be the sweet scene our souls shall thrill, 

When on the Lord we call, 



Asking of Him to strip away, 

(Just as He strips each leaf,) 
Out of our souls the sins that slay, — 
Out of our hearts each grief! 

Then, shall the scene of Zion fair, 
(When from all sin we're free,) 

Like to Blue Hill, thro' woodlands bare, 
Grand and inspiring be! 



VESPER SONG 

Now that hath come the Maytime fair, 

Now that the grass is green, 
Now that the trees, so lately bare, 

Clothed in fresh leaves are seen, 
Ere comes the night, go I out for a stroll, 
Loitering long on the crest of the knoll, 

Gazing beyond to where, so clear, 

Kissed by the setting sun, 
Stand out the hills, to me so dear, 

Precious, yes, ev'ry one, 
Crowned by a halo of red, fair and bright, 
Ere sets in gloom the fast on-coming night ! 

And, as I look in deep delight, 

Sweet, on my listening ear, 
Breaks a glad voice from yonder height, 

There, in that coppice near, 
Song of the merry, brown thrush, who, on high, 
Pours out his soul 'neath the calm, evening sky! 

Varied the air, distinct each note, 

Joyous that vesper hymn, 
Bursting from out that feathered throat, 

Just as the day grows dim, 
Bidding me, too, to sing praise to the Lord 
Who all the blessings of life doth afford! 

Like to a Moslem, who, to prayers, 

Calls from his turret high, 
He, in the cassock brown he wears, 

Out from the tree doth cry, 
Turning his head, in his zeal, all around, 
So each believer may list the glad sound! 

Then, do I look within my soul, — 

See I the sin that's there, — 
Pray I the Lord to make it whole, 

Stainless, and white and fair, 
Ere pass I home with a song in my heart 
Which trust I, never, from it will depart! 
129 



Tiny, brovvn-surpliced Singer free, 

Rather I'd hear your song, 
Up, in the choir-loft of your tree, 

Where you, by choice, belong, 
Than prima donnas, (to you I might name,) 
Singing for riches, for honor and fame! 

For, little Bird, in russet dressed, 

You sing for naught but love! 
Bubbles your song from out your breast 

Up to your God Above, 
Thanking Him, truly, for all He hath done 
Since early morn till the set of the sun! 

KATHLEEN 

In the old-time Kerry County, forty years ago, to- 
night, 

I was strolling with my sweetheart in the moon- 
beams' mystic light; 

High above us mountains towered; down below 
Killarney gleamed, 

Blue as were the eyes of Kathleen ; oh, how bright, 
that night, they seemed! 

There, I placed upon her finger, as we halted, hand 
in hand, 

Just a simple, little circlet, — just a tiny, golden 
band, — 

Just the badge of true betrothal 'twixt myself and 
Kathleen sweet, 

Whom, I hoped, within a twelvemonth, I could 
make my own helpmeet; 

Then, she plucked a shamrock shining, bright be- 
decked with evening dew, 

Pinned it on my woolen waistcoat, (I had bought, 
that morning, new,) 

Asking me to keep the token, — wear it next my 
beating heart 

Till the time I came to claim her, nevermore, on 
earth to part; 

For, across the waste of waters, to the land beyond 
the sea, 

I was bound to make my fortune, — make a home 
for Kate and me; 

To the music of Killarney, lapping on its sandy 
shore, 

'Long the lake we strolled in silence, on that sacred 
night of yore; 

With the moonlight on her forehead, and the love- 
light in her eyes, 

Ah ! how beautiful my Darling 'neath the starry, 
summer skies! 

Then, both vowing faith eternal, at her father's 
cabin door, 

Lovely Kathleen left I weeping, tho' I kissed her, 
o'er and o'er: 



Near where fall the misty moonbeams on Killarney's 

placid breast, — 
Where the waves make murm'ring music, — there, 

my Love, now, lies at rest! 
There, they laid her, low, one dawning, ere I'd 

gained the cursed gold 
I was working hard at winning in the mines, so 

damp and cold! 



Stranger, see you, now, her Michael, broken-hearted, 
old and gray, 

Waiting for the happy moment when he, too, shall 
pass away; 

But, say, Stranger, when you bear him to the kirk- 
yard, on his bier, 

Place upon his breast this shamrock, he hath kept 
this many a year, 

Faded, now, and dry and brittle, but, which, once, 
was fresh and bright, 

When sweet Kathleen on his bosom pinned it, their 
betrothal night! 



THOUGHTS ON THE AUTUMN SEASON 

The longed for autumn's come, at last, 

With luscious fruit, so fair; — 
With huntsmen's merry, bugle blast, 

Re-echoing on the air, 
And asters smiling on their stalk 
Along each leafy, woodland walk! 

The woodbine spreads her robes of red 

O'er boulders, old and gray; 
The mountain ash rears high its head, 

With berries bright and gay, 
And ragweed candelabra raise 
Their lamps to light the rural ways! 

How fair upon yon hill the view! 

How cool and fresh the air! 
How clear the arching dome of blue 

With color, ev'rywhere, 
In grass and flower and leaf of gold 
Which autumn gayly doth unfold ! 

Then, loose the lurcher from his lair, 

And don thy buff -skin suit! 
Upon thine arm thy rifle bear, 
And, in thy high-topped boot, 
Advance thou 'neath the wildwood shade, 
Ere all the forest beauties fade! 



130 



But, pause, thou sportsman, ere thou take 
Thine aim yon deer to slay! 

Think twice, ere, in the bush or brake, 
You, lifeless, rabbits lay! 

Take not a life for sport, alone! 

For that there's nothing can atone! 

Yet, wander thro' the wood, at will, 

And whistle to thy dog! 
Wind loud thy horn upon the hill, 

Or, by the cranberry bog! 
Enjoy the splendor of the day, 
But, shoot thou not for merest play! 

Ah! nothing's like the autumn air, 

And naught is like its sun; 
And naught is like its welkin fair, — 

Its leafage gold and dun; — 
Its fruits and flowers, so radiant bright, 
All made by God to please our sight! 

This autumn, bringing in its train 

So many blessings sweet, 
(For instance, such refreshing rain 

A-foll'wing drought and heat,) 
Oh, let us welcome, Friends, with song, 
And pray it tarry, late and long! 



A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER 

In Rome, long centuries ago, 

A nobleman offended 
The Emperor and made a foe 

'Of him whom he attended; 
So, in a dungeon, dark and deep, 
The man was flung to moan and weep: 

The Ruler, (it is said,) decreed 

That, in this dungeon dreary, 
The nobleman should stay, indeed, 

Till he became quite weary 
Of calling out for meat or bread, 
For, nevermore, should he be fed : 

Tho' he became but skin and bone, 

Should any one, whoever, 
Him give to eat, the worst death known 

Would pay his kind endeavor; 
And, in the cell, where he was cast, 
The man was bound with fetters, fast: 

When he'd been, there, for ten days' space, 

And morsel none had tasted, 
The tears ran down his aged face, — 

Down o'er his bosom wasted, 



And to the gods his pleading cry 
Made tearful ev'ry kindly eye: 

His piteous cry, by night and day, 
Was constantly heard ringing; 

But, none, (his hunger to allay,) 
Was seen one crumb a-bringing; 

And, tho' he'd sev'ral daughters "fair, 

To brave the ruler none did dare: 

But, he'd one child, (a daughter, too,) 
Who 'gainst his mind had married, 

And, when her father's fate she knew, 
At home, no more, she tarried, 

But, went her sisters to entreat 

That they would send their parent meat: 

Her sisters, all, refused to do 
What she besought, so madly; 

So, leaving them, this daughter true 
To prison hurried, sadly, 

To speak with him, — her father dear, 

But, given was she no entrance, here: 

So, to the Emperor she flew, 

And, on her knees a-flinging, 
This daughter, dutiful and true, 

Her hands before her wringing, 
Begged she her sire might, once more, see 
That from his curse she freed might be: 

The ruler granted her request, 
(On this one, sole condition,) 

Each day, should she, (at his behest,) 
Before she gained admission, 

Be searched to see no drink or meat 

She bore her suff' ring sire to eat : 

So, for her father, so distressed, 

No food she carried, ever, 
But, with the milk from out her breast 

She nourished him, and, never, 
Was seen a prisoner in a cell 
So fat, so fair, so strong and well: 

Yet, in the dungeon, dark and drear, 

With terror she upbounded, 
And pallid grew her cheek, for fear, 

(If but a step resounded,) 
The keeper, with his watchful eye, 
Should learn the secret, passing by: 

For twelve, long months, and, e'en, a day, 
She, thus, her father nourished; 

But, none imagined in what way; 

None guessed how 'twas he flourished, 



131 



Until the ruler, great and grand, 
Much musing, it did understand: 

He much admired the noble deed 

Of this young dame devoted, 
Who, breaking not his law, did feed 

The sire on whom she doted ; 
So, pard'ning him, he honors poured 
Upon the daughter of the lord 

Who'd cast her off because that she 

Against his wish had wedded, 
But, whom, now, dear as life, held he, 

(This happy man, gray-headed,) 
A-blessing, all his days, the hour 
When fled she to her nuptial bower: 

To spread abroad the woman's fame, 

The ancient Romans builded 
A splendid temple to her name, 

Of rarest marble, gilded, 
And she, who wed in mean estate, 
Was crowned with riches, grand and great. 



THE OUTLAW'S OFFER 

Rode the rough freebooter, far, on his mare, 

Over the bright-blooming heather, 
Waving to those who to follow did dare, 

Stormy and cold tho' the weather: 

Plund'ring the farmers, by burn and by brae; — 
Ere they awaked, onward, speeding; 

Such was strong Jimmie Mcpherson's strange way; 
Such was the life he was leading, 

When, after many attempts, caught was he; — 

(He, with his foll'wers confiding,) 
As, o'er the highlands of Scotland, in glee, 

Once, on a raid he was riding: 

While, for a season, in prison, he lay, 
(There, in his cell, dark and dreary,) 

Jimmie composed a short song, blithe and gay, 
All to an air bright and cheery: 

Then, being brought to atone for his sin, 
Crowds, at the place, him surrounding, 

Played he the tune on his loved violin, 
Clear, on the zephyrs resounding: 

After the strains died away on the air, 

Boldly, the outlaw demanded 
If there were present a friend who would care, 

From its rash owner, red-handed, 



Just as a gift, his dear fiddle to rake; 

But, no one forward a-going, 
He the frail instrument on his knee brake, 

Round him the fragments a-throwing: 

Soon, there swung, high, on the tall gallows-tree, 

Rover and robber, marauder, 
Who might have been, had he chosen to be, 

Maybe, a bard of the border! 

KNIGHTHOOD 

In feudal days of long ago, 

When might made right, 
When each stood ready with his bow, 

By day or night, 
When petty barons held in fief 
The castles of some stronger chief, 
And few were better than a thief 

In God's clear sight, 

There, still, were some whose bosoms bled 

At what they heard; — 
Whose noble hands grew, never, red 

At a hasty word, 
But, who, in armor shining bright, 
(Reflecting rays of silver light,) 
To right some wrong, in tourney fight, 

Had, ne'er, demurred: 

These knights of golden chain and spur 

Have passed away; 
Their deeds our hearts but little stir, 

Dear Friends, today; 
But, in these more enlightened days, 
There, yet, live those on whom we gaze, 
In deep delight, and sing their praise 

In tuneful lay; 

No gleaming Milan mail they wear, — 

No helmet plume; 
No sword or battle-axe they bear, — 

No pride assume; 
But, o'er each broad and manly chest 
Truth's glitt'ring corselet light doth rest, 
And pity in each kindly breast 

Finds ample room: 

To hold high office in the land 

And honest be, 
To keep the heart by courage fanned, 

To clearly see, 
And, then, to do the thing that's right 
Is grander in our Saviour's sight 
Than arming for the bloody fight, 

It seems to me: 



132 



Ye Statesmen, all, who work for Peace, 

Of ye I sing! 
The good ye do shall, never, cease, 

And, surely '11 bring 
Much happiness to all the earth, — 
To those of high or lowly birth! 
A gift it is of greater worth 

Than anything! 

Such men as these of whom I speak 

Are modern Knights! 
They, too, defend the poor and weak 

And guard their rights! 
All honor to their hearts of gold! 
Their many virtues manifold! 
May, long, such champions station hold 

On Freedom's Heights! 

LINES WRITTEN ON THE RECEIPT OF 
SOME APPLES 

l 

(Dedicated to my Aunts, Frances and Eleanor) 

Many thanks for the fairies you sent, 

In their rough, wOoden carriage close pent! 

Tho' they rode eighty miles, (maybe, more,) 

They arrived, safe and sound, at my door; 

On their beautiful bodies I found 

Ne'er a bruise, scratch or tiniest wound; 

And, tho' never a word could they speak, 

(As I gazed on each round, ruddy cheek,) 

Felt I sure that I knew their intent, — 

That I read the kind message you sent, 

For, they smiled, and their breath, pure and sweet, 

Rose, like incense, my nostrils to greet; 

When I buried my teeth in each heart, 

Felt I mine was a murderer's part; 

Yet, their flesh, juicy, soft, snowy white, 

Filled my soul with the deepest delight: 



As I look on each bright, dimpled face, — 
On each figure, so fair, full of grace, 
In mind's eye, I can see where they grew, — 
The gnarled apple-tree, laden with dew; — 
Dainty sprites from the leaves peeping out, 
On each lip, e'er, a smile, ne'er, a pout; 
I can see the neat house, long and low, 
In whose garden fair flowers brightly blow; 
Thro' the clear, kitchen casements, so clean, 
My two, dear, widowed aunts may be seen, 
Their slight forms flitting, here, and, now, there, 
In their print, mourning gowns and white hair;- 
Faithf ul dog, by the door, in a dream ; — 
'Cross the road, the old mill, o'er the stream, 



Giving out that low, dull, droning sound, 
As its saws swiftly whirl, round and round; 
Then, at hour of high noon, I can see 
Good, old Rover, the dog, full of glee, 
As Aunt Eleanor ties his neck strong, 
With a strip of white cloth, stout and long, 
And he trots to the mill, as a sign 
That 'tis time for the household to dine 
On a dinner of veg' tables green. 
And the best berry-pie, e'er, was seen; 
While to crown the feast, simple tho' fine, 
Are those beauteous fairies of mine, 
In the fruit basket, blushing as red 
As old Phoebus preparing for bed: 



Thanks, again, my dear Aunts, for the fruit 
Which an epicure, surely, might suit! 
May it grow, many years, on your lands, 
Watched and tended by your adroit hands, 
You repaying, a thousand times one, 
For all trouble it's given and done! 



THE SHEPHERD'S SONG 

My heart's in the heather, 
Where browseth the roe, 

When comes the spring weather 
We shepherds all know! — 

When o'er the wild mountains 

Upcurleth the mist, 
And all the hill fountains 

By Phoebus are kissed ! — 

When, up from the heather, 

To usher the day, 
The lark breaks his tether 

And soareth away! 

My heart's in the heather, 

Where peacefully feed 
My lambkins together, 

Whilst pipe I my reed! 

The breeze feel I shifting 

My bonnet awry! 
The clouds I see drifting 

Like ships in the sky! 



I lie on the heather, 
So blue and so bright; 

My heart as a feather, 
Forever, is light! 



133 



And, comes it up rainy, 
By way of the burn, 

To bonny, sweet Jeanie, 
At eve, I return! 

Wrapped well in my plaiddie, 

The storm to defy, 
There, ne'er, was a laddie 

As happy as I! 

My heart's in the heather, 

Ben Nevis below, 
Whatever the weather, 

Rain, sunshine or snow! 



OCTOBER 

No murmur broke the silence, 

Upon the distant hill, 
Save chirps of blithesome crickets brown 
And ripened acorns dropping down 

Beside the voiceless rill: 

Along the quiet roadway, 

I saw the goldenrod 
With queenly head now flaked with frost, 
Which, once, in pride, she gayly tossed 

Above the verdant sod : 

There, too, brown eyes of asters, 

From faded fringes, gazed 
On yonder cloudless vault of blue, 
So wondrous fair to the flowerets few 

Who looked on all, amazed: 

And, as, entranced, I lingered 

Along the blossomed bed, 
1 saw the scarlet maples lean 
Against the sturdy pine-trees green, 

Like lovers newly wed: 

No breeze stirred limb or leaflet; 

No note of bird was heard ; 
For, croaking crow and jeering jay 
Would not disturb the perfect day 

By scolding sound or word: 

The sumach glowed in glory, 

With leaves of brilliant red 
Far redder than yon, huge brush-fire 
Whose tongues of flame flared faster, higher, 

Demanding to be fed: 

Whilst I, there, stood, admiring 
The splendor of the sky, — 



The beauty of the forest old, 
(Adorned in crimson, green and gold,) 
I raised mine eyes on high 

To where the fire was writhing 
Like snakes in death's dread throe, 
And, then, I thought of th' angel tall, 
With flaming sword, who manned the wall 
Of Eden, long ago; 

As God's most mighty servant 

Drove Eve from Eden fair, 
The forest fire, with blazing blade, 
Drove me, in fear, from out the glade, 

On this bright day, so rare: 

October, blue October, 

The Indian Summer sweet, 
Oh, let thy curtains, clear and blue, 
So matchless fair in tint and hue, 

Mine eye, long seasons, greet! 

And let thy golden sunshine 

Us charm until the birth 
Of gray November's days, so chill, 
Which ev'ry heart with gloom do fill, 

Destroying joy and mirth! 

October, gold October, 

Oh, loiter with us long! 
And, for all pleasures you us bring 
Your loving praises, here, we'll sing! 

We'll tell thy worth in song! 



THE BELLE OF THE BOG 

When the reaper comes, like Father Time, 
(With his scythe, so long and keen,) 

To mow down the grasses, in their prime, 
Wearing tassled caps of green, 

Then, my soul grows sad to see the sight, 
And I tremble at the thought 

That my darling blossoms, gay and bright, 
To their deaths will, soon, be brought: 

The marsh marigold is let alone 

In her low and boggy bed; 
On the swamp azalea, widely known, 

Dreaded mower doth not tread: 

Arethusa, like the nymph of old 

Hiding deep in marshes wet, 
The grim reaper, with his foll'wers bold, 

To my rapture, doth forget: 

134 



But, 'mong troops of leaves, (tall soldiers trim,) 

With their trusty daggers drawn, 
The rare Louis Lily nods to him, 

In the witching Junetime morn; 



For, on the meadow's withered breast 
The grass was growing green, 

And, on yon hillock's rugged crest 
A harebell had he seen: 



He dares, now, not desecrate her shrine, 

Yet, he looks upon her face 
And the straight dragoons who stand in line 

Round their queen's damp hiding-place; 



On yonder, leafless apple-tree 
A bluebird plumed his wing, 

And, thro' the moorlands, gay and free, 
The brooklet bright did sing: 



But, he swears the time will, surely, come, 
(And that hour he'll, patient, bide,) 

When the lovely Belle of the Bog, struck dumb, 
He shall bear away, — his bride: 



So, with his hand, (no longer, young,) 

He grasped his staff of oak, 
(To which last season's leaflets clung,) 

When from his breath there broke 



So, whene'er I see the swamp grow dry, 
And the heat of midday's sun 

Make the green dragoons, that death defy, 
Become yellow, sere and dun, 



A bugle blast, loud, clear and shrill, 
And from his hair there fell 

A few, small snowflakes on the rill 
And on the wee harebell; 



I fear much the mower and his men, 
With sharp scythes hung high on arm, 

Who gaze out across the grassy fen, 
And who mean my flower great harm: 



But, at the blast, the snowbirds bright 

Close nestled in his beard, 
And, toward the north, old Winter white, 

(With all his pets endeared,) 



Ah! at last, they come to meadow hall! 

Body guard, grown old and bent, 
One by one, round blue-eyed blossom fall, 

To no death-cry giving vent; 



Crept on with feeble steps and slow, 
Wan, weary, pale and weak, 

Till on his brow began to blow 
The polar blizzards bleak; 



And the reaper grasps the lily rare, 

As the Romans, long ago, 
Seized the sprightly Sabine maidens fair, 

In the way my readers know; 

But, ere home he hies, at dewy eve, 
Plucks the reaper from his hat 

An unsightly thing, he can't believe 
On a throne could, once, have sat; 



Then, rosy grew his pallid cheek, 
And brilliant beamed his eye; 

No more, a grandsire, wan and weak, 
(The storms to, there, defy,) 

But, strong and sturdy, once again, 

A soldier of the snow, 
He'll fling the frost on moor and fen, 

And sing, "Heigh-ho! heigh-ho!" 



The fair Fleur-de-lis, of royal birth, 

Like a withered hag, all see; 
And, with scorn, is flung upon the earth 

The bright Belle of the Boggy Lea! 

Oh, thou regal Lily, Louis Grand 
Chose his country's blossom sweet, 

May you bring not to your native land 
Such a fate as that you meet! 

THE PASSING OF WINTER 

Up rose old Winter, bent and white, 
And shook his beard of snow; — 

Hooked on his icy armor bright, 
And said that he must go, 



We're glad, old Winter, you have fled! 

The springtime, now, we'd meet! 
And, soon, the summer days, instead, 

In turn, we all would greet! 

But, when the autumn's passed away, 
(With joys it, e'er, doth bring,) 

We'll wish to see thy visage gay, 
And hear, "Heigh-ho!" you sing! 

THE IRISH PEASANT'S SONG 

Our home is nought but a cottage, Wife, 

But, to us 'tis a cosy nest; 
And, here, we've lived all our wedded life; 

God grant, here, we may spend the rest! 
135 



One night, I, here, brought you home, — a bride, 

And you sat by the ingle-nook, 
Your cheeks with red of the roses dyed; 

I remember your ev'ry look! 

I thought no bride was there, e'er, so fair 
As the one who was mine, that night, 

When firelight lay on thy shining hair, 
And on eyes that like stars were bright ! 

But, when the firelight doth, now, find rest 

On the ruffles about thy face, — 
Ton kerchief crossed on thy faithful breast, 

In thy looks there's an added grace! — 

A grace which you to the cot impart, 
For, wherever your foot doth tread, 

A ray of sunshine seems soft to start 
Like the shamrock from out its bed! 

At morn, with joy, to my work away, 
Once, I went, in my youth so strong, 

Met, e'er, by thee, at the close of day, 
With a smile and a snatch of song ! 

No sweeter greeting could lordly earl 

Receive, e'er, from his lady fair, 
In gown of lace, with a rope of pearl 

Twisted all thro' her raven hair! 

And blacker far were thy tresses fair, 

Tied with ribbons of bonny blue, 
Than hers with fillets of jewels rare 

Twined their coils and their braids all thro' ! 

The gorse to gold hath turned fifty times 

Since it blossomed along the way, 
The morn the kirk-bells rang out their chimes, 

On our beautiful wedding-day; 

And we are lovers as much, dear Heart, 
As, when kneeling before God's shrine, 

We swore to love until death should part, 
And we've kept to our oath, Love mine! 

In joy or grief, all our married life, 

Your kind heart's been my home, alway! 

It's you, and not the old cabin, Wife, 
I must eulogize most, today! 

But, far less blest would we be, elsewhere, 

Than we are in this cot, my Own, 
(The brine's sweet breath on the breezes rare 

From the far-away bogs, here, blown,) 



Where, oft, I dream of the babies twain, 

(Both born, here, when we two were young,) 

And where is brought, down the narrow lane, 
The light prattle of each wee tongue 

Of the lad and lass, who, now, far away, 

Send, unfailingly, weekly wage 
That we may dwell in the cot of clay, 

In our feeble, yet, glad old-age! 



SPRINGTIME FLOWERS 

The gloomy winter's end is near; 
Yon giant trees, in woeful fear, 

Their naked arms uptoss, 
As shrieks the blast their boughs among 
Like legion howling demons hung 

On limbs grown gray with moss: 

But, never fear! 'twill, soon, be time, 
'Neath fairer skies, at chebec chime, 

In grove and grotto green, 
By brooklet's brink, 'neath shelt'ring tree, 
The modest wildflower fair to see, — 

Our forest, fairy queen! 

And, when we find each gracile form, 

Our hearts will throb, — our blood grow warm ; 

We'll deem it wrong to tear 
From native haunts such vestals sweet, — 
Pure hamadryads, whom we greet 

With low obeisance rare: 

In hollows of the wildwood wide 
The yellow adder's tongue doth hide, 

Caressed by sunlight pale, 
(Which filters thro' the budding trees,) 
And watched, as sways she in the breeze, 

By leaves that never quail: 

The trillium, with petals white, 

(Which make wood-borders gleam with light,) 

'Mong leafy whorls of green, 
Like Venus fair appears when she 
Arose from out the shining sea, 

And, first, by man was seen: 

The bloodroot's spotless beauty fair, 
So fragile, transitory, rare, 

Which wilts at nature's frown! 
Unless we watch with jealous eye, 
She, shattered by the storm, will lie, 

In torn and tumbled gown: 



136 



When redwings trill their liquid lays, 
The violet, in silence, prays; 

And, e'er, her visage meek, 
(From which the love of God shines out,) 
Looks earthward, in a way devout, 

With tears upon her cheek: 

Spring beauties, blushing by the brink 

Of brawling brooks, whose dew they drink, 

Shut up their gentle eyes, 
And sleep upon their leafy throne, 
Whene'er the days are dark and lone, 

Till bright to-morrows rise: 

The mayflower, with its clustered blooms, 
Which, 'neath the rugged pine, perfumes 

The raw and chilly air, 
Seems all too weak to breast the wind 
Which stirs the withered leaves close twined 

About its stems with care: 

Which will you crown the queen of all? 
The sweet spring beauty, pink and tall ? 

The violet, so blue, 
(Mahomet's chosen blossom bright?) 
Or the arbutus, pink and white, 

Bedecked with dripping dew? 

They all are lovely, I confess; 
But, she, adorned in rosy dress, 

(The Pilgrims' floweret fair,) 
To me is one of those most sweet, 
And one we far would go to greet, 

And home, in handfuls, bear! 



NOVEMBER 

Our surly, old acquaintance, 
November, is our guest; 

We do not bid him tarry; 
Wl dare not bid him rest! 

He, never yet, was welcome, 
For, at his biting breath, 

The blossoms fold their petals 
And close their eyes in death: 

The leaves scud fast before him 
To seek a hiding-place; 

From hollow trees the squirrels 
Peep out to scan his face: 



Whene'er he blows his trumpet, 
Thick clouds of sombre gray, 

Like serried ranks of soldiers, 
Make dark the dreary day: 

At his approach, the streamlets 

Put on a smile of scorn, 
For, much they fear his fetters 

May bind them, ere the morn: 

He moans among the willows; 

He roars upon the sea; 
He whistles down the chimney 

To startle you and me: 

The song-birds fear his presence, 

And, at his advent, fly; 
Tho' crows, his blackguard courtiers, 

His praise from tree-tops cry: 

And, yet, is he an artist 

Renowned the wide world o'er; 
No human skill can equal 

The pictures he can draw: 

And, tho' he strips the leaflets 
From birch and maple tree, 

He shows the grace and beauty 
In branches bare and free : 

He drives the mists and vapors 
From marsh and deep morass; 

He purifies the water 

And makes it clear as glass : 

He slays the vile mosquitoes 
Which summer sleep annoy; 

He puts to death the locusts 
Our harvests might destroy: 

From hair and beard, so hoary, 
He showers, thro' the night, 

A counterpane of crystals 

That gleam like jewels bright; 

And, when, with frosty fingers, 

He touches yonder wood, 
The forest kings becometh 

A white-robed brotherhood: 

Besides, he brings the gayest, 

The best loved day of the year, — 

Thanksgiving Day, so blessed, 
So full of joy and cheer : 



137 



Oh, dreary, old November, 
I think I've changed my mind! 

I guess I like you better, 
As I your virtues find! 

So, as I hug the hearthstone 
And hear your cheery voice, 

I'll ask you just to enter 

And take of chairs your choice! 



MY GOOD MOTHER 

With her soft, thick hair, (white as driven snow,) 

Combed away from her low, broad brow, 
And her sunken cheeks, (which were ruddy, once,) 
But, are pale as the snowdrops, now, 
At the early daybreak, 
My good Mother's awake, 
Putting hands to the family plough: 

Upon frosty mornings, she builds the fire, 

When the rest lie in sleep profound ; 

And her luscious coffee and omelet light 

I can smell when I list the sound 

Of the loud, breakfast bell, 

That I know, oh, so well, 

As I leap from my bed at a bound : 

Then, her clothes are white as, e'er, swung the 
breeze, 
And her cake and her biscuits brown 
Are full fine enough any prince to please; 
And, with, ne'er, on her face a frown, 
O'er the sick ones she bends, 
And her sympathy lends, 
Tho' her heart in her bosom sinks down: 

When her fevered feet and her aching back 

She may rest, just an hour, or so, 

She a stocking snatches to mend a rent, 

Or, on something some stitches few 

She most carefully takes, 

As the swirling snowflakes 

On the pane beat a pleasant tattoo : 

Then, when supper is o'er, and the poultry fed, 

And my Sire on the couch doth doze, 
Her poor, tired frame in a rocking-chair, 
(Our old dog at her side, with nose 
Resting close to her feet,) 
She takes, truly, a treat 
Reading how in the world each thing goes: 



As the years creep on, and her cheerful face, 

Here, before me, I see, each day, 
My affection deeper and stronger grows, 
And I feel that there's naught can pay 
For the strength she hath spent 
And the love she hath lent 
But to strew on the rest of her way 

All the truest love which can hold my heart; 

And I'll do so from this day bright, 
Till her work shall fall from her patient hands, 
And her sweet, gentle face shall light 
With a smile, when she sees, 
Borne on wings of the breeze, 
Death's fair Angel in raiment of white! 



DRINKING AT THE TROUGH 

Beneath a drooping, old elm-tree, 

In Sharon Village Square, 
An iron wat'ring trough you'll see 

Like others found elsewhere: 

From out its depths, up towards the sky, 
A standard, straight and strong, 

Bears four large signs, (to passers-by 
Four friends that speak no wrong;) 

They tell the distance, point the way 

To strangers from afar 
Who seek some goal, ere fades the day 

And gleams the evening star: 

Thro' days of summer's scorching heat, 
This trough, beneath the tree, 

Is just the place where ever meet 
The friends most loved by me: 

Here, comes the prancing dappled-gray, 

(My lady's pet, so fair,) 
Tricked out in russet harness gay 

Bedecked with silver rare: 

Here, hastes the working-horse, so strong, 
With sweat-stained side and flank, 

Who never heard the rippling song 
The brook sings 'neath its bank; 

The sweetest song he ever hears 

Is that his comrades make 
A-drinking at the trough he nears 

Like deer the forest lake: 



138 



Two minutes at the trough to rest 

Beneath the grateful shade; 
One, long, deep draught, — earth's purest, best 

For horse or humans made: 

And, thus they stand the trough beside, — 

The work-horse with his wain, 
The pleasure-steed with glossy hide 

And flowing, jetty mane; 

Like brothers, (as they are,) stand they; — 

(No pride or envy, there, — ) 
The dusty draught-horse and the gray 

With shining skin so fair: 

Then, off starts each upon his way, 

Again, to never meet, 
But, maybe, at the close of day, 

Each dreams of draught so sweet. 



HUNTING FOR THE SLIPPER 

Hunting for the slipper, 
Ah! what joyous fun! 
In the dewy morn, 
When the day is born, 
And the dreary night is done: 

Hunting for the slipper, 
In the month of May, 

When the robins sing 

And the bellworts ring 
Of the birth of happy day: 

Hunting for the slipper, 

Not a modern one, 

Made of leather brown, 
Dyed to match your gown, 

Fit to wear when fast you run: 

Hunting for the slipper, 
And, if it you tear, 

Ne'er, you'll cobbler find, 

Mending, to your mind, 

Smallest rent in slipper rare: 

Hunting for the slipper! 
There, it waits for thee! 
In the breeze it swings, 
Lacings brown, like wings, 
Flutt'ring fast in zephyrs free! 



Hunting for the slipper! 
Such a tiny shoe! 

Far too small, I know, 

For your little toe, 
And all bright with drops of dew! 

Hunting for the slipper, 
(Where the fairies roam,) 
Of the kind, at night, 
In the pale moonlight, 
That they wear in wildwood home! 

Hunting for the slipper! 
Yes, my naughty Nell, 

Of a flower I speak, 

In my poor way weak, 
Which you'll find in yonder dell! 

'Tis the Lady's Slipper, 
Fair in form and hue, 

Blushing bright at sight 

Of Aurora's light, 
'Neath the springtime sky of blue! 



OPEN, WIDE, YE GATES! 

Ye glorious Gates of Beauty, 
So close to the Shining Sea, 

Deep set in those Walls of Jasper, 
Oh, open, thou, wide, for me! 

Oh, grant beatific vision 

Thou gavest to bards of old, — 
Which Jacob, once, saw, in slumber, 

When earth from his eyes off-rolled! 

And, clear thro' the azure ether, 
Life's Ladder I'll see, so bright, 

That reaches from here to Heaven, — 
To Realms of Eternal Light! 

Up which I shall see a-climbing, 

(Towards Portal which stands ajar,) 

That radiant, white-robed Angel 

Who wears 'bove his brow a star; — 

Who bears, (in his arms, so tender,) 
Close-pressed to his spotless breast, 

The souls who from earth are lifted 
To the land of sweet, endless Rest! 



139 



And, oh, let me list the music 

That bursts from the seraph throng, 

When, foll'wing the steps of Jesus, 
They haste on their way along 



"Catbird, Kingbird, Firebird, dearly 
Have I loved each one of you, 

When I heard your notes ring clearly 
Yonder copse or thicket thro'! 



Towards Throne of the Holy Temple, 
Where, washed in Life's Crystal Stream, 

They fall on their knees, and, prostrate, 
Praise offer to God Supreme! 



"I shall miss your solos cheery! 

I shall miss your figures fair, 
When the days grow dark and dreary 

And the snow lies ev'rywhere! 



Oh, Guard of the Gate, glimpse, only, 
Is all which I beg of thee! 

Oh, ope jewelled Door, one moment, 
That I Golden Street may see! 



"But, the Winter Birds, — your cousins, 
Soon, will come my soul to cheer! 

I shall see them, by the dozens, 

When the days dawn dun and drear! 



That I, as I journey onward, 
May hear in my soul the song 

That's sung by the Ransomed Pilgrims 
Who, now, to the Lord belong! 



"Juncos, who have been so hardy 
As to nest on mountains high, 

Here, to come will not be tardy, 
When with snow is dark the sky! 



GOODBY TO THE BIRDS 

I can hear the squirrels scolding 
In the woodland toward the east; 

They a conclave must be holding 
'Bout the coming chestnut feast; 



"So, ye Summer Birds, God speed ye 
To your home beyond the sea! 

He will keep and He will feed ye, 
Till ye come, once more, to me!" 



SONNET TO A PINE OF THE NORTH 



And a phoebe heard I calling 
In the wildwood, yesterday, 

As the first dry leaves were falling 
In the forest, old and gray; 



Pine Tree, which, in patience, waiteth 

In the forest dim for me, 
When the merry redpolls mateth, 

Then, dear Love, I'll haste to thee! — 



As he, "Phoe-be!" thrice repeated, 
Still stood I to list his cry, 

Ere to work I back retreated, 
Saying, "Phoebe, Dear, goodby! 



Haste to meet thee, when the sunlight 
Gilds thy swaying spire with gold, 

Tho' the darksome hues of midnight, 
Even then, thy feet enfold! 



"Thou hast cheered me, many a morning, 
With thy music, sad, yet, gay! 

Now, three times, you've given me warning 
That you're going far away! — 



How I long to lie, at leisure, 
On the needles round thy feet! 

How I long to catch a measure 
Of the song you sing so sweet! 



"Searching out a warmer region, 

Where the sun shines clear and bright, 

Travelling on, with comrades legion, 
Thro' the silent, starry night! — 



Where thy mighty thighs lie vested 
In their mossy breeches gray, 

There, the warrior brave hath rested 
From the chase, or, from the fray! 



"In the daytime, often, resting, 
Getting, e'en, a bit to eat; 

In the dark, the blast a-breasting 
With thy tiny pinions fleet! 



By thy titan trunk he hovered, 

(With his sweetheart, passing fair,) 

In his marten mantle covered 
And his moccasins of hare ; 



"By no chart or compass, Phoebe, 
Are you guided on your way, 

Yet, you'll reach, with Swift and Pewee, 
Havens fair, without delay! 



She with feathers bright a-bobbing 
From the brow-band of her crest ; 

With the windflowers white a-nodding 
On her pure, tho' bronzed breast: 



140 



So, when windflowers fair are smiling 

In the country where I dwell, 
Then, I know they you're beguiling 

With their ways you love so well: 

And, some spring, when stand you pond'ring 
On what say these blossoms white, 

I shall northward go a-wand'ring 
That I, too, may see the sight: 

And, beneath thy shadow, daily, 

I shall sit and think of one, 
Who, long years ago, here, gayly, 

Came to woo, ere day was done: 

Love's sweet dream for him is ended; — 

For this lover and his lass, 
But, 'neath him who them defended, 

Other lovers, yet, shall pass! 

And, whilst 'neath thy boughs are plighted 

Vows for aye and aye to last, 
Bright their faces will be lighted 

Like those lovers' of the past! 

Thus, fond wooers e'er defending, 
Dear, old Pine Tree, long may thee 

Stand with fragrant spindles bending 
O'er the windflowers 'bout thy knee! 

May you stand, for many ages, 

Smiling, in the greenwood old, 
Till the hand, that penned these pages, 

Wastes in yonder mossy mould! 

May you cast your cones, full-seeded, 
Sprouting saplings which may grow 

Into trees like thee, for, needed 
Are such forest kings, I trow! 

Never may the woodman daring 

To thy bole his axe let fall, 
But, may you continue bearing 

Health and pleasure to us all! 



Fire's cheeks are red as the rose's blush; 

Like the crackling bough, his voice; 
Active, his movements, and, in a rush 

Seems he, always, as from choice; 

Brings he man warmth, when he's cold and chill; 

Cooks his food and gives him light: 
Water his wells, drying up, doth fill, 

Making fields with barley bright: 

Air drives his ships on the shining sea; — 
Cools his brow in noonday's sun; — 

Giving a gas to all mortals, free, 
Without which their race were run: 

But, man, beware! hold they henchmen three 

Fettered well, or, thou shalt rue, 
Deeply, the day when the Master thee 

Gavest slaves you deem so true! 

Fire, tho' thy bread he may bake so brown, 
(Should you leave him, long, alone,) 

Over thy head may thy house burn down, 
Laughing loud to list your moan ! 

Water, (which, far on the desert dry, 

To the thirsty brings delight,) 
Bears the poor boatman the landing by, 

O'er the seething whirlpool white! 

Air, which with oxygen rare is rife, 

To a blast, with ease, can rise, 
Piping a tune on his shrilly fife 

Till quite dead all nature lies! 

So, tho' to steam you can water turn, — 
Heat your hearths with lightning's gleam, 

Man, be alert lest the lightnings burn! 
Lest thy flesh doth scald the steam! 

Water and Fire and the Air are thine 

Just so long as watch you keep ! 
Strong, willing servants are they, in fine! 

But, take care! you mustn't sleep! 



THE THREE SLAVES 

Long years ago, when the world was new, 
Man was given three slaves to work, 

Who've been well known, all the ages thro' 
Toil severe to never shirk: 

Fire, Air and Water are names they bear 

Over all this earth so round; 
And, just as long as stout gyves they wear, 

Servants true they've all been found: 



GUESS, THE VAGABOND 

Down the walk went we together 
Toward the little garden gate, 

In old, "Frisco's" pleasant weather, 
Wond'ring why Papa was late: 

Landmarks all were growing dimmer 
At the foot of Laurel Hill; 

Myriad stars commenced to glimmer, 
In the west, above the mill : 



141 



Headstones, (in the graveyard, yonder,) 
Looked like spectres gowned in white; 

Gauzy moths began to wander 
Thro' the dewy, autumn night: 

On we strolled, 'mid roses fragrant, 
Toward the fastened, garden gate 

Where a little, dusty vagrant 
Crouched, alone, in sorry state: 

White was, once, his coat so woolly; 

Sad was, then, his eye of brown, 
And, when I had seen him, fully, 

Vanished from my face each frown: 

Opening gate, without my calling, 

Entered tiny vagabond, 
As the mists of night were falling 

From the starry heights, beyond: 

Looked the wand'rer so beseeching, 
In my heart I could not bear, 

Out, thro' darkness, far-off reaching, 
Him to turn without my care: 

What his name was little vagrant 
Couldn't tell me, tho' he tried, 

As he sniffed the flowers fragrant 
Blooming, there, on ev'ry side; 

So, I named him, "Guess," and, calling 
Him to me, I stroked his head ; 

And, while dewy mists were falling, 
On some meat dear Guess I fed: 

Many a romp had we, together, 
In those days long since gone by, 

And I can not answer whether 
Guess enjoyed them best, or I: 

Friend more faithful child had, never, 
Than this wand'rer proved to be; 

And I'll not forget him, ever, 
Tho' a mongrel dog were he! 

Often, now, when day's descending, 
And the evening star shines bright, 

Over Gusss, the Waif, I'm bending, 
Patting pretty head so white! 



FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 



Flowers of the Forest, modest and fair, 
Naught in the world with thee can compare! 
Wooed by the breezes, kissed by the sun, 
Bathed by the dew when daylight is done, 
Looking to heaven, or, kneeling in prayer, 
Scatt'ring thine incense sweet thro' the air, 
High on the hilltop, low by the stream, 
Long may you ponder! Long may you dream! 



Flowers of the Forest, fair in the face, 
None can thee rival clad in her lace! 
Tho' none behold thee save butterflies, 
Or, from the tree-tops, chipmonks so wise, 
Still, art thou happy! Still, art thou glad! — 
Never, complaining! Never, quite sad! 
Doing thy duty! Blooming thy best! 
Leaving the Lord to manage the rest! 

Soft is the bed of mosses, so green, 
On which, at eve, you gracefully lean, 
Listening, in joy, to vesper lays sweet 
Tanagers red so gayly repeat! 
Where you awake at sound of the song 
Thrushes, above, trill loudly and long, 
When you begin to nod in the breeze, 
Waiting for calls from big bumble-bees ! 

Beating his drum, soon, one cometh near; 
But, at the sight, you, Flowers, have no fear! 
Seeking for honey, softly, he'll light 
Right in the face of her, the most bright! 
Loud are his notes which grate on your ear, 
But, how he loves your nectar, so clear ! 
Powdered with pollen, off, then, he flies 
Some other bloom to, now, fertilize! 



Thus, day by day, fair Flowers, are spent 
Lives, pure and simple, God hath you lent, — 
Flinging your fragrance out to the breeze, 
Sweet nectar giving any who please, 
Smiling on all who thro' the wood pass, 
Be she a queen, or, just a wee lass! 
Flowers of the Forest, fair, yet, heart-free, 
What would the wildwood be without thee ? 



142 



VALE! 

Dear Friends and Readers, fond and true, 

Who, at your fireside leisure, 
Have read this little volume thro', 

(I trust with some small pleasure;) 

The time hath come, {'tis, here, to-day;) 
When I must cease my singing; — 

When I must on its wand'ring way, 
"Farewell!" send clearly ringing: 

Goodby, loved Friends, again, some day, 

To meet, perchance, to parley! 
"Adieu!" I can not, shall not say, 

But, "Health to Thee! Sweet Vale!" 



143 



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